Oldie

歌詞

[Intro: Taco] Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album You feel me, son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle Shouts out to Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk [Verse 1: Tyler the Creator] Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages Tossing them in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches So when he says "catch up, n*gga" it looks like an accident Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest My b*tch white and black like she's been mimicking a panda It's the dark skinned n*gga, kissing b*tches in Canada Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela Put her in the chamber all against her Will Chamberlain I never had a reason, n*gga, I was just able Not a f*cking Logic contradicting d*ck head Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit Semen scented cheetah printed tee In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season Previous items in the present With the normal ass past like I cheated on my team Man (tried to get that n*gga, but, Golf Wang) [Verse 2: Hodgy Beats] To have some type of knowledge that is one perception But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus I'm Zeus to a Kronos Cartilage cartridge is boneless Smiles of cowards in lead showers Dead spouses in red blouses Children who fled houses on Mustang horses an went jousting I'm on my Robin Hood sh*t Robbin' in the hood: whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet I'm stealing your rings, coke diamonds and your Vet Soldiers lace the f*ckin' boot And salute like the troop when they shoot you gon' poop It's Killhodgy, n*gga, stay the f*ck off my stoop And out my Kool aid, juice [Verse 3: Left Brain] Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin Jasper got the Henny, my n*gga we get it in Wolf Gang party at the hotel I call a ho, you call a ho, and all the hoes tell You know Left Brain need a freak I need a b*tch to go down like a Nitty beat Yup, uh, and her ass fat Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at N*gga I'm tryin' to smoke, b*tch get higher Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin' 'bout a lighter Still bang salute me or just shoot me Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting Yea my n*gga Ace will pull the black jack The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac Livin' like the Mafia, b*tch, don't get to slacking up And if these haters actin' up, throw 'em in the aqueduct Free my n*gga Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much But two bad b*tches in front of me cunnilingus [Verse 4: Mike G] What the f*ck is caution? Often I Leave 'Em Flossin In KAWS X's Next To Coffins Lost in translation, the dreams you chase Got you diving for the plates like you stealin' home base That's great - I'm home alone dreamin' of two on ones With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on And Travis is in the closet organizing and hangin' the tramp Three lettermans that Ace has been makin' him No strays while we catchin' matinees, huh? I'm gettin' blazed thinking 'bout those days I had the top off the GT3 like toupees One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays My grand scheme of things Is to be attached to the game like b*tches to their wedding rings And you don't even need to look Cause we gleam obscene in the light Ride slow to my yellow diamond shining like the Batman logo over Gotham Rock LA to Harlem If you say "get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em One man squadron, n*gga I'm a problem From Briggs I got bars and plans to Pimp these Polish b*tches into pop stars Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still And if I said it then it is or it's gonna be real OF 'til I OD and I probably will, uh [Verse 5: Domo Genesis] It's still Mr. Smoke-a-lot-of-pot Get your baby mommy popped with my other snobby bop Do I love her, prolly not Know your sh*t is not as hot as anything I f*ckin' drop B*tch I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Cock I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop Op Dom neck sh*t in your wish list Mad sick sh*t, mad d*ck for your b*tches On some slick sh*t, your mistress on my hit list And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this b*tch Odd in your motherf*ckin' area Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up And f*ck your team, ho n*gga wassup Wolf Gang so you know we not givin' no f*cks You know me dog, I'ma chill in the cut so I can Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up (Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga) [Verse 6: Frank Ocean] Rent a super car for a day Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze Bro, easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day But just enough for a week, my n*gga what can I say I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight I'ma get you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day 'Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes On the song, cut and you could sample the feel Headphone bleed, make this sh*t sound real Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars Now, how many f*ckin' crystal balls can I buy and own Humble old me had to flex for the fogs Down in Muscle Beach pumpin' iron and bone Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone Yea, bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone [Verse 7: Jasper Dolphin] Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it's hard Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor Pot head, half baked, lookin' like Chappelle Rollin' up a blunt with that fire from hell Still ignorant, still hit a b*tch Wolf Gang, n*gga, so I still don't give a sh*t Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap Bong rips as I feel on that little b*tch cat Hah, n*gga came through with a 9 bar real quick Just for the b*tches, little bit of money in my pocket F*ck it, Wolf Gang [Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt] Yeah, f*ck that Look, the contrast is a pair of lips Swallowin' syrup and settin' fires to sheriffs whip F*ckin' all American terrorist Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a f*ckin' carrot stick And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin' And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel So that sterile piss flow remind these n*ggas where embarrassed is Narrow, tight line, might impair him Since I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type Pharaoh f*ckin' pillow tear wearin' pack of parasite Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise Ladidadi back in here to f*ck the party up Raiding fridges, tipping over vases with a tommy gun Never dollars, pop would make it rain hockey pucks 60 day chips from f*ckin' awesome anonymous Call him bloated 'til he show them that the flow deluxe Off the wall loafers, four loko, and a cobra clutch Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho' to pose his drum Let me hit him, hit it with a stick until the ho was numb Culprit of the potent punch Scolding hot as dunking scrotum in a Folgers cup - or Nevada Driving drunk inside a stolen truck Sh*tting like his colon bust Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices I'm roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as the porridge is Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end Post mortem porkin' this rap sh*t and record it To escort it to the morgue again Lord of lips, bored of this Forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list Stormin' the gate, who's sure in the base, scorching ladies Motherf*ckers soarin', torso and face Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache Indian pack of n*ggas who don't give a f*ck if we nasty as flatulence As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky so see me you can't Like crunchy black cats in a taxi Back like lateral passing With that motherf*cking gladiator manner of rapping As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me Fall back if your paddies is Maxi Please [Verse 9: Tyler the Creator] OF, sh*t that's all I got From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac From that father figure Clancy to that skatey n*gga Naks Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the f*ckin' block Storefront, knee tat Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks And grip tape... and my shoes Um, I was 15 when I first drew that donut 5 years later, for our label yea we own it I started an empire, I ain't even old enough To drink a f*ckin' beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop This is for the niggers in the suburbs And the white kids with n*gga friends who say the n-word And the ones that got called weird, fag, b*tch, nerd Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg They say we ain't actin' right Always try to turn our f*ckin' color into black and white But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em Radical's my anthem, turn my f*ckin' amps up So instead of critiquing and b*tching, being mad as f*ck Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as f*ck B*tches [Outro] OFM, bangin' on your FM Gnaw, 2011, yea Golf Wang