Desk God

Yeah…

You ever watch a clown crown himself king of a place he don’t run?

This that moment where delusion meets reality.

Let’s go…

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You the desk god, huh?

Scrollin’ on your phone like the warehouse owe you love, huh?

Bare-minimum legend, king of “I don’t do enough,” huh?

Actin’ like you built the place — boy, you can’t even lift the stuff, bruh.

Every day I walk in, you freeze like a mannequin,

Quick drop the phone like it’s evidence you panickin’.

You ain’t slick — whole shift watch you vanishing,

You the type to brag ’bout work you ain’t even managing.

Act divine? I’ll knock that halo crooked,

God’s gift? Please — if they rewrapped you, they’d return you where they took it.

Lazy written on your face like a permanent tattoo,

Act tough ’til real work shows — then you fold like bad glue.

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You ain’t built for this grind — you just sit and pretend,

Work stoppin’ every second soon as I walk in again.

“God’s gift to the warehouse”? Boy, stop the pretend,

’Cause if laziness was a trophy, you’d be top-three… and not number ten.

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You mastered the bare minimum, yeah, that’s your religion,

Prayin’ every day nobody checks on your decisions.

Scroll-scroll-scroll — that’s your full-time position,

If effort was a drug test? You’d fail with no suspicion.

Soon as I clock in, you vanish like a ghost,

Actin’ like you grindin’, but you coastin’ the most.

I walk past the desk — you freeze, screen close,

Lookin’ guilty as a thief still holdin’ what he stole.

You ain’t never put in sweat; you allergic to ambition,

Got a PSS title but zero recognition.

You swear you’re the backbone, holdin’ down the building —

But when real pressure hits? You crumble like the ceilings.

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You ain’t built for this grind — you just sit and pretend,

Work stoppin’ every second soon as I walk in again.

“God’s gift to the warehouse”? Boy, stop the pretend,

’Cause if laziness was a trophy, you’d be top-three… and not number ten.

⸻

Bare minimum? Yeah, that’s your whole biography,

Actin’ like management wrote you into the prophecy.

Truth is, if effort was currency?

You’d owe the whole company — with interest — constantly.

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Every day you clock in like the job’s beneath you,

Till I show up — then suddenly work tries to meet you.

You ain’t foolin’ nobody; we see you, we read you,

False king with a cardboard crown — boy, nobody needs you.

This ain’t a diss — nah, this a full intervention,

’Cause your “God’s gift” ego needs early prevention.

You ain’t runnin’ the warehouse, stop the self-invention,

You just sittin’ at a desk seekin’ phone-screen attention.

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So next time you claim you’re the chosen one in this space,

Remember:

Even GPS can’t find your work ethic…

’Cause it never existed in the first place.