Wake up, soldier. Check the score. The scale's your god, you're still a whore. Beneath one-eighty? Pathetic shame. A weakling without a brand or name. That bicep's soft, that chest's not stone, A failure made of skin and bone. You think that effort's enough to win? That half-assed rep is a mortal sin. Get up at three. Splash ice-water strife. Now choke down the shake that's your pathetic life. You'll pawn your last shirt for a coach who just sighs, At the pitiful sight you're trying to disguise. Two-fifty-K a year? That's a pathetic wage! Go make twenty-five thousand, before breakfast, you must engage! A six-pack's for peasants, you need a carved eight! A new, higher standard of suffering and hate! So break your own spirit and sell the damn pain, For profit and clout and a life that's insane! For that vacuous kitten in the apartment next door, Who'd swipe left on God if he wasn't trending anymore. The clock ticks on, your life's a bore, Still not a Rolex? Still fucking poor? He hangs on every word from a god made of fake, Then cries at the five-out-of-ten in the mirror he can't remake. A flabby, soft sack with a receding hairline, A weak fucking jaw that will never align. No strength, no status, no purpose, no grit, Just a soft-bodied, spineless, pathetic shit. Go on, buy the gear, the pre-workout blend! The secret steroid from a "trusted" friend! For God's sake, get the surgery, carve out that gut! Sew in some abs and seal yourself shut! Get your legs shattered to meet a meaningless demand, It's the only way you'll ever almost be a man. Optimize! Revise! Max out your last credit card debt! A German car note that you can't afford? Don't sweat! Forget who you were, just remember the brand, A broke, empty man with a watch in his hand. So who cares if you're drowning in loans and in strife? You're living the flex! You're winning at life! At a shallow-ass party, but brother, yourΒ drip... .... Is funded by payments you constantly skip. Two-fifty-K a year? That's a pathetic wage! Go make twenty-five thousand, before breakfast, you must engage! A six-pack's for peasants, you need a carved eight! A new, higher standard of suffering and hate! So break your own spirit and sell the damn pain, For profit and clout and a life that's insane! For that vacuous kitten in the apartment next door, Who'd swipe left on God if he wasn't trending anymore. Wipe that sweat. Your best years are gone. More grind. More lies. While the true life moves on. I demand the image. I demand the show. KILL THE MAN THAT YOU USED TO KNOW. More. More. More. ...Until your name is just a brand on a forgotten door.
