MC the FURT

Yo, the idle of the engine is the only sound you hear,
A black-tinted window reflecting all your fear.
The Ledger doesn’t lie, the numbers don’t pretend,
This is where your "empire" comes to a bitter end.

Exhibit B: The falsified reports, the hours you erased,
While you sat in the back, leaving the floor debased.
Exhibit C: The missing funds, the "shrinkage" in the back,
We traced the Embezzlement—every cent, every track.

You thought you played the system, but the system played you,
Every bribe, every theft, we have a bird’s eye view.
Your Occupational Fraud is a stain on the brand,
And now the cleaning crew has finally reached this land.

Black Sedan, waiting at the gate,
Carrying the iron hand of corporate fate.
No more shadows, no more lies to spin,
Let the purge of the island finally begin.

You targeted the whistleblowers, isolated the brave,
Dug a hole for the honest, but you dug your own grave.
"Retaliatory harassment"—that’s a federal crime,
And we’ve got the timestamps, serving as your chime.

You thought this island was a void where the law couldn't reach,
But silence is a luxury you’re no longer allowed to preach.
The Board has seen the footage, they’ve heard the toxic bile,
You’re being stripped of your title, file by file.

Hand over the keys, vacate the premises now,
Your "loyalty" was a fraud, and this is your final bow.
Security is waiting, their grip is firm and cold,
The story of the tyrant is officially told.

NKGW:
"Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?! I am the Manager of this store! This is my domain! It’s his lie! All of it! That kid is framing me!"

MC the FURT:
"Your 'domain' is a clerical error, NKGW. Every signature you forged, every cent you siphoned... it’s all been notarized into a permanent record. It’s no longer a debate. It's a calculation."

Watch him get dragged across the dusty parking lot,
A king without a crown, tied in a legal knot.
Into the backseat, into the dark of the glass,
Watching his "authority" turn into a ghost of the past.

The island air smells different, the salt is feeling sweet,
Now that we’ve swept the corruption off the street.
The Black Sedan departs, a funeral for a fool,
the FURT—still standing, rewriting the rule.

Black Sedan, waiting at the gate,
Carrying the iron hand of corporate fate.
No more shadows, no more lies to spin,
Let the purge of the island finally begin.

Black Sedan.