[Verse 1]
They called it “growth,” I called it decay,
Boxes dropping nonstop like judgment day.
Clock hits shift time, spine says no,
But rent’s a chain so I still go.
Supervisors pacing like prophets on the belt,
Never carried a damn thing, never felt what I felt.
Safety signs fading like forgotten sins,
Floor stays slick, waiting for another spin.
“Stretch, hydrate, protect your spine,”
But the workload rewrites your lifeline.
Time bends, snaps in your face—
This ain’t a job, it’s a full erase.
[Pre-Hook]
Every shift’s a bet with a clock that lies,
Minutes drag out till the future dies.
They preach “we care,” but the truth stays cold—
Care don’t exist when your bones feel old.
[Hook]
Hell’s Boxline, step inside,
Where bodies break and bosses hide.
Lift it, drag it, crash on the floor,
You’re just a barcode, nothing more.
Clock in hurting, clock out wrecked,
This place collects your spinal debt.
Hell’s Boxline—where hope collapses,
And your soul pays overdue taxes.
[Verse 2]
Supervisors roaring, “KEEP THAT RATE!”
While a fifty-pound box rewrites your fate.
Belts jam up like they’re cursed by ghosts,
Then YOU get blamed—you bleed the most.
And out on the ramp? Sirens cut through smoke,
A plane hit the tarmac like a cosmic joke.
Metal in flames, whole sky turning black—
And they still scream, “Quit staring! GET BACK ON TRACK.”
Cargo’s backed up, chaos on display,
They STILL can’t get freight to Hawaii today.
Whole chain collapsing, timeline fried,
But somehow it’s your fault the freight just died.
[Pre-Hook]
Breaks feel fictional, minutes feel fake,
Back so twisted it trembles and shakes.
They chant “teamwork” in hollow cries,
While you haul the weight their spirit denies.
[Hook]
Hell’s Boxline, step inside,
Where timelines fold and dreams collide.
Lift it, shove it, fall to the floor,
You’re just a number—expendable core.
Clock in hurting, clock out numb,
Mind goes silent, future undone.
Hell’s Boxline—where souls collapse,
And every shift tightens the final straps.
[Bridge]
You say “support,” but I hear “pretend,”
You want my hours, not the pieces I spend.
“Injuries? Report it!” corporate spin—
One wrong move and they blame your skin.
This ain’t a path, ain’t a career,
It’s purgatory in fluorescent gear.
[Final Hook]
Hell’s Boxline, step inside,
Where hope gets crushed and timelines die.
Lift it, drag it, crawl on your knees—
This place writes tragedies with ease.
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