Lyrics

We’re the Seven-Ten squad, call us Bandbox, bitch,
Got radar eyes while you scratch your itch.
Situational kings, we see you comin’,
While your sorry ass is just out there fumblin’.

Chuter's the boss, don’t fuck with his flow,
He’ll smoke your dumb plan before you even go.
Alpha Mike's struttin’ like he’s God’s damn gift,
But without us on comms, he’d fly off a cliff.

We're the Bandbox boys, the radar gods,
You fly blind, we beat the odds.
Air battle management, tight and loud,
We own the sky, now say it proud.
Fighters ain’t shit without our call,
We give the fight, you just stall.

Here comes Sonja, shakin’ her head,
Sayin’ "Nope" to all the fun instead.
But fuck it, we roll, we do our thing,
Flippin’ the bird while we make ears ring.

Pushin’ pixels, callin’ shots,
While you hotshot jocks just jerk your cocks.
We vector, we track, we got the map,
You’re playin’ pretend—we’re runnin’ the trap.

We're the Bandbox boys, the radar gods,
You fly blind, we beat the odds.
Air battle management, tight and loud,
We own the sky, now say it proud.
Fighters ain’t shit without our call,
We give the fight, you just stall.

Alpha Mike, you cocky clown,
Without our vectors you’d crash and drown.
You flex hard, but we steer the show,
You're just the muscle—we're the brains, bro.

So here’s to Chuter, that cold-eyed vet,
He’ll cut your comms if you pose a threat.
And Sonja, yeah, she says “Denied,”
But we’re Bandbox, baby—authorized worldwide.

We're the Bandbox bastards, radar kings,
Call us when you want real war wings.
Seven-Ten, burnin’ up the net,
Best goddamn squad this world’s ever met.
So sit your ass down, salute this crew—
We see you, track you, and we own you.