Lyrics

Look at that pilot with his Gucci-ass gloves,
Talkin’ ‘bout G’s like he’s flyin’ with doves.
Bitch, you ain’t Top Gun, you a budget Tom Cruise,
If it weren’t for us, you'd be yesterday’s news.

And them SAM crews act like they gods of the sky,
But without our blips, they’re just jerkin’ off high.
Pushin’ buttons like they run the fight,
Can’t even scratch their balls without our sight.

Seven-one-zero, suck our scopes,
We feed you targets, you swing your ropes.
You fly your jets, you ride your dicks,
But we make war with real damn clicks.
So while y’all pose in some TikTok pose—
We’re stackin' kills and pickin’ our nose.

Weapons section, yeah, we loud and rude,
But at least we ain't cocky with nothin’ to prove.
Surveillance? We creep like a stalker ex,
Tracking your mama and interceptin' her texts.

Y’all shoot missiles like it’s Call of Duty,
But can’t spell “track file” with your whole damn booty.
You ever seen war from a radar screen?
It’s porn for nerds, and we jack it clean.

Seven-one-zero, Bandbox pride,
While you flex in jets, we run this ride.
You’d miss a fuckin’ blimp in clear blue skies,
Without us tellin’ you, “He’s at three-five-five.”
So wear your patches and talk that game—
We’ll be backstage laughin’, countin’ your shame.

Hey pilot—your last kill?
You're welcome.
Hey SAM guy—your last launch?
That was our fuckin’ target.
Now sit down, shut up, and learn how the war’s really won.

Seven-one-zero, we ain’t polite,
We drink, we swear, and we own the night.
We don’t need glory, we just need the feed—
And maybe some beer and a chick who can read.
So cheers to the squad that keeps you alive—
Bandbox, bitch. We make war thrive.