S.B.A.M.D

Lyrics

S.B.A.M.D. – “Better Down Here” [Verse 1] They call us S.B.A.M.D., Surface Based Air Missile Defense, That’s what the PowerPoint says, But after six beers it makes fuck-all sense. Could mean Sexy Bastards And Missile Dudes, Could mean Shoot Bastards And Make ’Em Drop, Could mean Special Beer And Massive Dicks, Hell, nobody’s gonna make us stop. There’s three men runnin’ this circus, Well… two men and one antique, One old bastard held together By caffeine, hate, and creaky knees. He says, “Back in my day—” We say, “Nobody gives a shit,” Then he rips a fart so fuckin’ hard The NBC alarms nearly hit. [Pre-Chorus] Radar hummin’, missiles waitin’, Beer fridge colder than your ex, Anything comes through our airspace— Welcome to the fuckin’ threat complex. [CHORUS] S! B! A! M! D! Put that flying shit in the dirt for me! Two drones down, two smoking holes, Now pass the beer and show some boobs! Fuck your wings and fighter pride, We don’t need a jet to save our hide, You boys can fly your fancy chair— Ground-based motherfuckers own the air! [Verse 2] Two drone kills in an exercise, Little bastards never had a chance, One second they were buzzin’ round, Next second—smoke and falling parts. And don’t think drones are all we handle, Brother, that’s the kiddie pool, Fast jet, helo, bigger target— Give us tracks and give us fuel. We watch the picture, call the shots, Keep the units straight and tight, Then go straight back to arguing Who drank the last cold beer last night. One man’s checking engagement zones, One man’s checking tracks, Old man’s checking if his pension Can afford another six-pack. [CHORUS] S! B! A! M! D! Put that flying shit in the dirt for me! Two drones down, two smoking holes, Now pass the beer and show some boobs! Fuck your wings and fighter pride, We don’t need a jet to save our hide, You boys can fly your fancy chair— Ground-based motherfuckers own the air! [Verse 3 – Fighter Pilot Love Song] Oh, here come the fighter pilots, Walking like they own the place, Ray-Bans on indoors at midnight, With a helmet bag and pretty face. They’ll tell you ’bout their nine-G turn Before you even know their name, Then stare into the nearest mirror Just to make sure their hair’s the same. They need a runway, tanker, tower, Weather brief and twelve-man crew, A million-dollar flying dildo Just to do what grown men do. We need coffee, maps and missiles, Maybe Wi-Fi if we’re blessed, Then we shoot your fucking problem While the old man scratches his chest. They scream, “FOX TWO!” on the radio Like they just invented war, We say, “Cool story, Maverick— Now go taxi back some more.” [Verse 4] They love that leather jacket, Those patches hanging everywhere, Spend forty minutes briefing What shampoo they’ll use on their hair. Meanwhile down here underground, Nobody gives a flying fuck, If the sky starts throwing punches, We’re the boys that fire back. No dramatic slow-mo walkouts, No soundtrack when we arrive, Just three bastards eating snacks Keeping everybody alive. Well… mostly three. The old guy might be sleeping. But wake him when shit gets serious— He’s surprisingly good at killing. [Bridge – Acronym Breakdown] What does S.B.A.M.D. mean?! Surface Based Air Missile Defense! That sounds boring as shit! Try again! Shoot Bastards And Make ’Em Drop! Better! Special Beer And Missile Department! Getting warmer! Sweaty Balls And Massive Dongs! …Put that on the squadron patch. [Breakdown] Beer! Missiles! Tits! Tracks! Someone farted— Open the hatch! Radar! Launchers! Threats! Beer! Fighter pilots— Get the fuck outta here! [CHORUS – BIGGER] S! B! A! M! D! Put that flying shit in the dirt for me! Two drones down and we’re hungry for more, We’ll smoke whatever comes through the door! Fuck your wings and fighter pride, You need eight support crews just to take a ride, We sit down low while you comb your hair— GROUND-BASED MOTHERFUCKERS OWN THE AIR! [Verse 5] When the working day is over And the sky is safe and clean, We perform our final checklist: Beer, boobs, nicotine. Somebody tells a dirty joke, Somebody cracks a can, Somebody drops a biological weapon Straight from his ass again. “Jesus Christ, who fucking did that?” Every finger points around, Old man smiles like Satan himself— “Boys, that’s ground-based defense.” We evacuate the section, Eyes watering, dignity gone, That bastard achieved area denial Without turning a radar on. [Final Chorus] S! B! A! M! D! Best damn section in the whole IAMD! Two young idiots, one old prick, Beer in the fridge and missiles on quick. Fighter boys can kiss our ass, Burn your fuel and fly real fast, When something nasty fills the air— Guess who’s already fucking there? S! B! A! M! D! Three ugly bastards, one air-defense family, Drink that beer, let that fart rip free— SURFACE BASED AIR MISSILE DEFENSE… …or Sexy Bastards And Missile Dicks. Whatever. WE OWN THE FUCKING SKY FROM THE GROUND. [Spoken Outro] “Hey, fighter boy… nice jet.” “Cost much