Cis, forget everything

Testo

SIS — FOUR MEN, ZERO PREPARATION [Verse 1] Down at SIS there’s four goddamn kings, Masters of spreadsheets and forgetting things. Exercise Monday? “Yeah, we’re good to go!” Sunday night they’re screaming, “Does anybody fucking know?” First there’s Baldy with the goddamn frog-eye stare, Head shining brighter than a fucking signal flare. He looks at the plan like it personally lied, Then blinks twice slowly while the deadline fucking dies. [Chorus] Ohhh, SIS, what a beautiful mess, Four grown-ass men under maximum stress. No plan, no prep, but confidence high, One minor setback from an emotional goodbye. Coffee in the bloodstream, panic in the brain, Planning an exercise like monkeys flyin’ a plane. If preparation’s foreplay, these boys skipped the kiss— Welcome to the circus, motherfucker, this is SIS! [Verse 2] Then there’s the redhead, seven fucking feet tall, Built like a radio tower bolted to the wall. When something’s on the top shelf, he’s useful as hell, But ask him where the planning docs are—“Uhhh… couldn’t tell.” He walks through the office, blocks out the sun, Looks like a Viking who misplaced his fucking gun. Big enough to wrestle a goddamn grizzly bear, Still can’t find the briefing that was emailed everywhere. [Verse 3] Then comes the little one, skinny, bald and mean, Like somebody washed a goblin at ninety degrees. Jawline sharp enough to slice through steel, McDonald’s-M hairline completing the deal. He’s got that greasy little “I know better” grin, Like a discount supervillain somebody let in. Five foot fuck-all with the confidence of Shaq, Hairline moving forward while his forehead pushes back. [Chorus] Ohhh, SIS, what a beautiful mess, Four grown-ass men under maximum stress. No plan, no prep, but confidence high, One Outlook invite from emotionally saying goodbye. Coffee in the bloodstream, panic in the brain, Planning an exercise like monkeys flyin’ a plane. If preparation’s foreplay, these boys skipped the kiss— Welcome to the circus, motherfucker, this is SIS! [Verse 4] Number four looks young… or maybe sixty-three, Nobody knows his age, not even fucking he. He left his old job, at least that’s what they claim, But every damn sentence somehow circles back the same: “Back at my old workplace, we did it like this…” Yeah buddy, congratulations, now you work at SIS. You changed your fucking office, your badge and your chair, But mentally your old job is still fucking there. He talks about the past like a divorced old man, Still emotionally married to the previous plan. We get it, Grandpa, your old section was great— Now open up the exercise folder, we’re already late. [Bridge] Monday: “Plenty of time.” Tuesday: “Doing fine.” Wednesday: “Who owns this?” Thursday: “Fuck… was that mine?” Friday comes around and the whole thing’s ablaze, Four SIS legends in an Outlook-fueled haze. One giant, two bald heads, one man stuck in the past, All wondering why preparation went to shit so fast. Some teams build slowly, professionally and wise— SIS just screams “FUCK IT!” and improvises. [Final Chorus] Ohhh, SIS, raise your glasses high, To the boys who make deadlines curl up and die. Four fucking legends, somehow still employed, Turning every exercise plan into a goddamn void. No sleep, no prep, no clue what day it is, But somehow in the end they’ll say, “That went pretty whiz.” And when the next big exercise comes knocking at the door, They’ll swear they’ll prep much better… LIKE THEY FUCKING SWORE BEFORE. [Outro] S-I-S! Four men! One plan! Zero preparation! “…Wait, who booked the fucking room?”