“MILK THE SHIFT, CATCH THE FIST”

Clock slow… but not as slow as y’all.

Three hours on one truck?

That’s not work — that’s witness protection.

Ayo… let’s get into it.

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I hit the floor ready for war, steel-toe heart in my chest,

While these clowns move slower than a shutdown press.

No supes on duty? They turn sloth real quick,

Milk the clock so hard the clock bouta get sick.

Stretchin’ minutes like gum stuck under a desk,

Act like one simple load’s some impossible test.

Three hours on a job that should take twenty flat—

That ain’t effort, that’s a masterclass in being wack.

I’m grinding while they cruise like tourists on break,

No hunger, no pride, just excuses they make.

Fake soldiers crumble when the pressure applied,

If work ethic had a mirror, they wouldn’t look inside.

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They milk the shift… slow drip… weak grit,

Act like the workload too heavy to lift.

Bare-minimum kings crowned with excuses,

Real ones clock in and expose all the losers.

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Watching two dudes drag one task for three hours straight,

Moving boxes like they’re handling nuclear freight.

Breaks on breaks with a break in between,

Treat a basic load-out like some impossible scene.

Where’s the pride? Where’s the fire? Where’s any damn drive?

They work like the job’s trying to take their life.

When leadership gone, their hustle evaporates,

Laziness in the air thick enough to stack on crates.

I’m stacking, packing, flipping numbers legit,

While they treat every task like quantum physics and shit.

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They milk the shift… milk the shift…

Lazy bones fold quick when the pressure hits.

No supes around? They ghost and dip—

But I’m built different… I finish the script.

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I ain’t naming names, just calling the truth,

If the steel-toe fits, lace up that boot.

You can hide from bosses but not from the clock,

Warehouse karma hits hard like locks on a lock.

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I triple up when the workload tight,

They disappear when the job ain’t light.

Warehouse warriors vs. warehouse tourists—

Pressure separates the real from the poorest.

Snakes in rafters, sloths on the dock,

Dragging feet like they’re chained by a block.

Keep milking your minutes, dodging your grind,

But don’t complain later when you left behind.

Real ones rise. Fakes fade quick.

And I’ve been proving I’m a problem since I walked in this bitch.

⸻

Three hours.

One truck.

Legendary laziness.

But real ones?

We run circles around that bullshit.