[Intro]
[The bass and kick drum imitate a refrigeration compressor failing to restart.]

[Verse 1: Cold-Chain Worker]
I reach the distribution bay at quarter after ten,
The loading doors are open, but no cold breath leaves within.
The floor is wet beneath the crates, the warning strips are pale,
The logger says “two degrees”; the room feels warm and stale.
A thousand printed labels keep their promises in ink,
While insulin and cultures pass the point from which they shrink.
The inventory marks them safe, the handheld scanner agrees,
But condensation gathers on the silent cooling feeds.

[Chorus: Cold-Chain Worker]
Cold chain funeral, white breath leaves the bay,
Cold chain funeral, medicine turns gray.
Every label keeps a promise that the heat has burned away,
Cold chain funeral—we bury time today.
Cold chain funeral inside a refrigerated grave.

[Verse 2: Cold-Chain Worker]
The hospital calls twice and asks which shipment can be used,
I check the thermal paper where the rising line is bruised.
A crate of blood is warm enough to carry no reply,
A week of infant formula stands useless, stacked and dry.
The supervisor says to wait until the network can confirm,
I rip the green approval tag and show him what I learned:
A database can bless the box and make the status clean,
But no command can cool the air inside a dead machine.

[Pre-Chorus: Cold-Chain Worker]
Check the strip, not the file.
Touch the crate, wait a while.
When the data says “preserved,”
Ask what power actually served.

[Chorus: Cold-Chain Worker]
Cold chain funeral, white breath leaves the bay,
Cold chain funeral, medicine turns gray.
Every label keeps a promise that the heat has burned away,
Cold chain funeral—we bury time today.
Cold chain funeral inside a refrigerated grave.

[Guitar Solo]
[A slow minor-key lead rides the compressor rhythm before breaking into a frantic double-time run.]

[Bridge: Cold-Chain Worker]
No funeral bell, no gathered crowd,
“DO NOT USE” on every shroud,
Outside, the city needs the load—
Inside, the heat has sealed the road.

[Breakdown: Cold-Chain Worker]
Scan says safe.
Strip says warm.
Crate says gone.
Mark it red.

[Final Chorus: Cold-Chain Worker]
Cold chain funeral, no white breath in the bay,
Cold chain funeral, the useful hours decay.
Every label keeps a promise that no database can make,
Cold chain funeral—count the lives behind the waste.
We seal the doors in silence while the hospital calls again—
Cold chain funeral for the medicine that never left.

[Outro]
The empty truck returns.
Its cooling engine runs.
Perfect temperature—
With nothing left to carry.
