Lyrics

Roll up in the squadron, dick hangin’ low,
Alpha Mike flexin’ like he runs the show.
Talkin’ 'bout radar, like he’s got a clue,
But that dumb motherfucker couldn’t track a goddamn shoe.

Seven-Ten, we run the goddamn fight,
While that pencil-pushin' prick just jerks off at night.
Command and Control? Bitch, that’s our game—
You just ride the rank train, spoutin' bullshit and blame.

Situational awareness? You got none, son.
You lost the whole fuckin' airspace before we begun.
While you’re sniffin’ PowerPoints, thinkin’ you’re hot,
We’re droppin’ targets while your ass forgot.

Yeah, Seven-Ten, we’re the real war dogs,
While you sit on your ass writin’ fake-ass logs.
Hoofdtaak één? That’s killin' shit clean—
You’re more lost than a condom in a submarine.

Fuck your rank, fuck your tie,
We run the skies while you barely try.
You got a title and a goddamn desk,
But out here we fightin’ — balls-out, grotesque.

Radar Love? Bitch, we wrote that script,
While you were jerkin’ off to a damn airlift.
Alpha Mike, more like Alpha Cuck,
Now shut the fuck up, we runnin’ outta luck.

So salute this, shove it up your ass,
Seven-Ten runs it with balls and class.
Tell Command we said it loud and slick:
Alpha Mike can suck my goddamn dick.