Lyrics

Them flyboys strut like their dick’s a cruise missile,
But scream like bitches soon as they miss a thistle.
Actin’ all hard in their tight-ass flight gear,
But cry over clouds and a touch of fear.

And them SAM boys? Big red buttons and no brain,
Missin' targets like they're pissin' in the rain.
Without our tracks they can’t hit shit,
Just standin’ around playin’ “Let’s Pretend We’re Legit.”


Seven-one-zero, we the warlord crew,
While y’all flex jets, we make ‘em do what they do.
You pull the trigger, we hold your dick—
We guide the shaft, you fire quick.
You look cool flyin’ with your nuts on ice,
But without our screen, you ain’t worth lice.


Surveillance be watchin' like a horny priest,
Weapons be smirkin’ like a drunk at a feast.
Yeah, we fight over who runs the shop,
But together we the motherfuckers who make shit pop.

We track that bogey like your girl’s OnlyFans,
You launch that SAM with our sexy hands.
You ain’t lethal, you’re just loud and slow,
We the ones yellin’ “Shoot!” — you the puppet show.


Seven-one-zero, the radar pimps,
While y’all play heroes with your fighter simps.
We light your kill, we stroke your score,
And when you miss, we laugh and pour more.
So wear your shades and pose for clout,
We the reason you even made it out.


“Bandbox, I think I see a target!”
Oh really, Sherlock?
That’s your own fuckin’ wingtip, dumbass.
Now breathe, unzip, and let us finish the war for you.


Seven-one-zero, dirty, proud, obscene,
We run this fight from behind the screen.
You touch the trigger, we slap the face,
We own the grid, you chase our trace.
So here’s to the nerds with the filthiest mouth—
Bandbox, bitch. We run north, east, west and south.