Sunday Funday (At Boeing Wit It)

Yo, clock in lock-in, we at Boeing, now we rockin’

We Sunday silky smooth like vinyl,

Boom-box on the dial.

Steel toes tappin’, rivet guns clappin’,

It’s that aft bodies come up, here’s what’s happenin’.

It’s a Sunday at the shop, we ain’t stressin’, we vibin’ (vibin’)

Waiting on the crane for the crown panel, we ridin’ (we ridin’)

Crew wondering, “where’s our pizza at?”—we chimin’ (where it at?)

Clock slow-rollin’ but we stay grindin’.

Go Dough strolls up like, “York, I need you to fix-it real nice,”

So Go Dough sends York to help Jamal on the butt splice.

Clee-coes in a FODD tray, tools on hand,

Jamal sees who team leed called, and goes “Oh damn, they sent the man!”

Jamal grins, “my guy!” — then he ghost like a haze,

Jamal with them extra breaks, out in a foggy Newport blaze.

I’m lining up frames, keep the stringers straight,

These bee deck hoes see the flow, and they can only hate.

It’s a Sunday at the shop, we ain’t stressin’, we vibin’ (vibin’)

Waiting on the crane for the crown panel, we ridin’ (we ridin’)

Crew wondering, “where’s our pizza at?”—we chimin’ (where it at?)

Clock slow-rollin’ but we stay grindin’.

Over in the corner, like on a barbershop bench,

Ross and Kilo scotch-brighting a shim, but won’t pick up a wrench.

Shhh — just watch, they off that hand craft artisan tip,

Till Ross has to blow out, cuz Kilo let one rip.

“Yo Kilo, pass the Scotch-Brite,” he goes “nah, I’m too busy rippin’ ass.”

That’s why when Go Dough tried to send York there, York said “Nah bro, hard pass.”

Radio crackle: “Stand by, crane’s comin’,”

Is that a fact, Len? Cuz I don’t hear shit hummin’.

Tag lines ready, clean gloves on with that fit tight,

Crown panel bout to set in, done real right.

Crew chat turns to hunger, stomachs all rap,

Somebody says again, “yo Mark, where our pizza at?”

Driver ain’t at the gate gettin’ lost, he ain’t on the map,

Cuz nobody ordered us shit, talk about a to the face slap.

We clown but we cool, it’s the Sunday vibe,

Blue tape, sharp scribes, that Boeing tribe.

We don’t rush art; we respect that build,

Keep the rivets on beat and the downtime chilled.

It’s a Sunday at the shop, we ain’t stressin’, we vibin’ (vibin’)

Waiting on the crane for the crown panel, we ridin’ (we ridin’)

Crew wondering, “where’s our pizza at?”—we chimin’ (where it at?)

Clock slow-rollin’ but we stay grindin’.

Back to the splice, York and Jamal try to align,

While Julia texts Johnny, “So you’re picking me up at what time?”

Click, click — torque talks, numbers in line,

That crown’s finna look finer than Voyager’s Seven of Nine.

Ross and Kilo still polishing a shim, they fingers bout sore

That shim so shiny you could damn near see through to the core.

We laugh, take five, drop bars on the floor,

’Cause the best type of Sunday is the slow kind of score.

Whistle blows soft, ain’t like we breakin’ a sweat,

Now York’s gone missin, somewhere outside walking his pet.