Break Room Gospel

Verse 1

Clocked in with a badge they won’t remember my name,

Thirty hours, no benefits, same old game.

Smile for the customers, swallow the blame,

While the rent keeps rising and the paycheck stays tame.

You say “we’re a family,” I hear “don’t complain,”

I mop up the mess while you cash in the fame.

Break room microwave hums like a prayer,

I’m biting my tongue but it’s thinning the air.

Pre-Chorus

You talk real big from behind that door,

Policies thick but the logic’s poor.

I’ve been polite, I’ve been quiet before—

Not today, not anymore.

Chorus

Fuck your Michelin Man looking ass,

Rolling through life on a bloated pass.

And fuck you too, you Pillsbury dough bitch,

Soft as your words when you dodge every question.

I’m done being small, I’m done being nice,

You call it “professional,” I call it the price.

This is what happens when respect goes missing—

Hear the sound of a temp worker quitting.

Verse 2

HR smile frozen, powdered and sweet,

Reads from a script like it’s gospel to me.

“Let’s circle back,” “that’s not our lane,”

Every answer polished, nothing explained.

You say “open door,” but it’s locked real tight,

Unless you’re salaried or built just right.

I lift the load, I break my spine,

You call it “entry-level,” I call it theft by time.

Pre-Chorus

Dress code emails, tone-check rules,

While the floor runs hot and the AC’s cruel.

You preach respect like it’s something you own—

Funny how fast that mask gets blown.

Chorus

Fuck your Michelin Man looking ass,

Full of hot air and corporate gas.

And fuck you too, you Pillsbury dough bitch,

Kneaded by policy, rising on bullshit.

I’m done being calm, I’m done playing dumb,

You push and you push till the snapping comes.

This is the hymn of the overworked kitchen—

Hear the sound of a temp worker quitting.

Bridge (spoken / half-sung)

This ain’t about names, this ain’t about looks,

It’s about power hiding behind handbooks.

About smiles that vanish when cameras are gone,

About “we value you” sung dead wrong.

Final Chorus

Fuck your Michelin Man looking ass,

Built off labor you never back.

And fuck you too, you Pillsbury dough bitch,

Sweet on the surface, empty of justice.

I walk out lighter, you stay the same,

Still playing dress-up in a broken game.

Badge on the table, freedom ringing—

That’s the sound of a temp worker quitting.