Clocked In, Worn Down-Blues Rock - Working Class Blues скачать в хорошем качестве

Clocked In, Worn Down-Blues Rock - Working Class Blues

Alarm clock coughing at half past five, Steel-toe boots just to feel alive, Coffee tastes like yesterday’s regret, Another long shift, another paycheck threat. Boss man smiling from a glass-high throne, Says “We’re a family”—but I’m dying alone. He wants my sweat, wants my spine, Wants my weekends, wants my time, Says “Be grateful, son, you got a job,” While he counts my hours like a ticking bomb. I’m clocked in, worn down, hands full of blame, Working harder every year for the same damn pay, Boss says “Give more”, won’t give an inch, Blue collar backbone in a white-collar pinch. Yeah I break my back just to stand still, While he buys another house on my unpaid will. Production’s up but the wages froze, Numbers look good in his tailored clothes, He calls it “growth”, calls it “drive”, I call it stealing pieces of my life. Safety sign peeling off the wall, “Report your injury” — but don’t you fall. Overtime whispers like a loaded gun, “You wanna keep this job? Better get it done.” Raises promised like a dangling chain, Pulled back quick when I mention the pain. I’m clocked in, worn down, knuckles cracked raw, Building someone else’s dream with a busted-up jaw, Boss man preaching about loyalty, While his bonus grows off my poverty. Yeah I bleed grease, rust, and pride, He bleeds numbers, lies, and a company line. My kid asks why I’m never home, Why my hands shake when I hold my phone, Mama says “Son, you look older now,” Yeah the job carved lines I didn’t allow. I gave my youth to a punch-in clock, Got a bad back and a broken lock. They say “Work hard and you’ll rise someday,” Funny how that rule don’t work both ways, ’Cause every rung I try to climb, Turns into another deadline. I’m clocked in, worn down, soul on loan, Boss man rich off the seeds I’ve sown, He wants respect but don’t earn a dime, Just rents my body one hour at a time. Yeah this system’s heavy, cold, and mean, Built on the backs of the unseen. One day this floor’s gonna crack, From all the weight we carry on our backs, You can’t squeeze blood from calloused hands, Or silence a worker who understands. I’m clocked in, worn down, but I still stand, With a union of scars in a working man’s hands, You can steal my time, steal my pay, But you won’t steal the truth I say. Yeah the boss got money, power, and lies, But we got numbers — and open eyes. Clock keeps ticking… But so do we.