[Verse 1] Clocked in Clocked out Same stain on my work shirt, same route Mop in my hand, mind on a verse Punching these numbers, but the pen hit first Dish pit steam in my face, I’m drenched Nails smell like metal from the warehouse bench Hands good with the wrench, with the tray, with the phone But I’d walk out the door when they left me alone Wrote bars on receipts, on the back of a bill Lunch break, stairwell, let the ink spill Boss say, “You smart, you could move up lanes” I smile like, “Yeah,” but I’m writing my name [Chorus] I had a job for every season But the pen always gave me a reason Good at the grind, never felt great So I turned every scar into something I could say From the stockroom dust to the late-night page I was climbing through a life made of minimum wage Now I’m betting every hour, every heartbreak check On the ink on my paycheck (on the ink on my paycheck) [Verse 2] Fried food smell in my hair on the bus Feet hurt, heart hurt, still jotting this stuff Friends talking ‘bout benefits, houses, plans I’m circling rhymes in the crease of my hands Tried sales, tried shifts in a call room cage Tried smiling on cue for a basic wage Every script in my ear felt fake, felt wrong But the lies turned lines, and the lines turned songs Mom said, “Baby, don’t you dare go broke” I said, “Broke is a life where I never spoke” So I saved every tip, every overtime drip Bought time in a booth, then I flipped that script (yeah) [Chorus] I had a job for every season But the pen always gave me a reason Good at the grind, never felt great So I turned every scar into something I could say From the stockroom dust to the late-night page I was climbing through a life made of minimum wage Now I’m betting every hour, every heartbreak check On the ink on my paycheck (on the ink on my paycheck) [Bridge] All them name tags, all those shifts All them tight smiles, fake “I’m blessed” Every “you’ll settle,” every “you’ll quit” I just filed that pain, now I’m using it (yeah, yeah) [Chorus] I had a job for every season But the pen always gave me a reason Good at the grind, never felt great So I turned every scar into something I could say From the stockroom dust to the late-night page I was climbing through a life made of minimum wage Now I’m living off the truth that they said meant less It’s the ink on my paycheck (ink on my paycheck)
