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Odd Future - Oldie |
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Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album |
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You feel me, son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas |
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Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle |
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Shouts out to Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean |
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Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk |
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Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners |
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In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages |
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Tossing them in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches |
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So when he says "catch up, n*gga" it looks like an accident |
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Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest |
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My b*tch white and black like she's been mimicking a panda |
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Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela |
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Put her in the chamber all against her Will Chamberlain |
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I never had a reason, n*gga, I was just able |
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Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit |
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Semen scented cheetah printed tee |
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In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season |
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Previous items in the present |
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With the normal ass past like I cheated on my team |
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Man (tried to get that n*gga, but, Golf Wang) |
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To have some type of knowledge that is one perception |
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But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus |
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I'm Zeus to a Kronos |
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Cartilage cartridge is boneless |
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Smiles of cowards in lead showers |
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Dead spouses in red blouses |
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Children who fled houses on Mustang horses an went jousting |
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I'm on my Robin Hood sh*t |
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Robbin' in the hood: whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet |
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I'm stealing your rings, coke diamonds and your Vet |
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Soldiers lace the f*ckin' boot |
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And salute like the troop when they shoot you gon' poop |
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And out my Kool aid, juice |
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Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin |
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Jasper got the Henny, my n*gga we get it in |
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Wolf Gang party at the hotel |
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I call a ho, you call a ho, and all the hoes tell |
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You know Left Brain need a freak |
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I need a b*tch to go down like a Nitty beat |
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Yup, uh, and her ass fat |
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Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at |
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Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin' 'bout a lighter |
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Still bang salute me or just shoot me |
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Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting |
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Yea my n*gga Ace will pull the black jack |
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The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac |
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Livin' like the Mafia, b*tch, don't get to slacking up |
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And if these haters actin' up, throw 'em in the aqueduct |
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Free my n*gga Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much |
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But two bad b*tches in front of me cunnilingus |
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What the f*ck is caution? |
| [02:58.13] |
Often I leave you flossin' and cause exes next to coffins |
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Lost in translation, the dreams you chase |
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Got you diving for the plates like you stealin' home base |
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That's great - I'm home alone dreamin' of two on ones |
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With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on |
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And Travis is in the closet organizing and hangin' the tramp |
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Three lettermans that Ace has been makin' him |
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No strays while we catchin' matinees, huh? |
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I'm gettin' blazed thinking 'bout those days |
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I had the top off the GT3 like toupees |
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One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays |
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My grand scheme of things |
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Is to be attached to the game like b*tches to their wedding rings |
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And you don't even need to look |
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Cause we gleam obscene in the light |
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Ride slow to my yellow diamond shining like the Batman logo over Gotham |
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Rock LA to Harlem |
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If you say "get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em |
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One man squadron, n*gga I'm a problem |
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From Briggs I got bars and plans to |
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Pimp these Polish b*tches into pop stars |
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Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still |
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And if I said it then it is or it's gonna be real |
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OF 'til I OD and I probably will, uh |
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It's still Mr. Smoke-a-lot-of-pot |
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Get your baby mommy popped with my other snobby bop |
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Do I love her, prolly not |
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B*tch I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Cock |
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I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot |
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Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock |
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Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts |
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Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop |
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Op Dom neck sh*t in your wish list |
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On some slick sh*t, your mistress on my hit list |
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And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this b*tch |
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Odd in your motherf*ckin' area |
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Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya |
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Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya |
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Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up |
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Wolf Gang so you know we not givin' no f*cks |
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You know me dog, I'ma chill in the cut so I can |
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Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up |
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(Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga) |
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Rent a super car for a day |
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Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze |
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Bro, easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day |
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But just enough for a week, my n*gga what can I say |
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I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight |
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I'ma get you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes |
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My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day |
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'Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes |
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On the song, cut and you could sample the feel |
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Headphone bleed, make this sh*t sound real |
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Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries |
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Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars |
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Now, how many f*ckin' crystal balls can I buy and own |
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Humble old me had to flex for the fogs |
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Down in Muscle Beach pumpin' iron and bone |
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Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone |
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Yea, bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone |
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Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone |
| [06:13.60] |
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Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it's hard |
| [06:19.35] |
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go |
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Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper |
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Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster |
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Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor |
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Pot head, half baked, lookin' like Chappelle |
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Rollin' up a blunt with that fire from hell |
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Still ignorant, still hit a b*tch |
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Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap |
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Bong rips as I feel on that little b*tch cat |
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Hah, n*gga came through with a 9 bar real quick |
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Just for the b*tches, little bit of money in my pocket |
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F*ck it, Wolf Gang |
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Yeah, f*ck that |
| [07:08.79] |
Look, the contrast is a pair of lips |
| [07:11.27] |
Swallowin' syrup and settin' fires to sheriffs whip |
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F*ckin' all American terrorist |
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Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a f*ckin' carrot stick |
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And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin' |
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And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is |
| [07:24.55] |
Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel |
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So that sterile piss flow remind these n*ggas where embarrassed is |
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Narrow, tight line, might impair him |
| [07:33.34] |
Since I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type |
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Pharaoh f*ckin' pillow tear wearin' pack of parasite |
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Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise |
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Ladidadi back in here to f*ck the party up |
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Raiding fridges, tipping over vases with a tommy gun |
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Never dollars, pop would make it rain hockey pucks |
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60 day chips from f*ckin' awesome anonymous |
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Call him bloated 'til he show them that the flow deluxe |
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Off the wall loafers, four loko, and a cobra clutch |
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Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho' to pose his drum |
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Let me hit him, hit it with a stick until the ho was numb |
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Culprit of the potent punch |
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Scolding hot as dunking scrotum in a Folgers cup - or Nevada |
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Driving drunk inside a stolen truck |
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Sh*tting like his colon bust |
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Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum |
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Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices |
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I'm roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as the porridge is |
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Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end |
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Post mortem porkin' this rap sh*t and record it |
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To escort it to the morgue again |
| [08:26.02] |
Lord of lips, bored of this |
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Forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list |
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Stormin' the gate, who's sure in the base, scorching ladies |
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Motherf*ckers soarin', torso and face |
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Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache |
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As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky so see me you can't |
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Like crunchy black cats in a taxi |
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Back like lateral passing |
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With that motherf*cking gladiator manner of rapping |
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As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me |
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Fall back if your paddies is Maxi |
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Please |
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OF, sh*t that's all I got |
| [09:11.00] |
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac |
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From that father figure Clancy to that skatey n*gga Naks |
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Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the f*ckin' block |
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Storefront, knee tat |
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Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks |
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And grip tape... and my shoes |
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Um, I was 15 when I first drew that donut |
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5 years later, for our label yea we own it |
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I started an empire, I ain't even old enough |
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To drink a f*ckin' beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop |
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This is for the niggers in the suburbs |
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And the white kids with n*gga friends who say the n-word |
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And the ones that got called weird, fag, b*tch, nerd |
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Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg |
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They say we ain't actin' right |
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Always try to turn our f*ckin' color into black and white |
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But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em |
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Radical's my anthem, turn my f*ckin' amps up |
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Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as f*ck |
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B*tches |
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OFM, bangin' on your FM |
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Gnaw, 2011, yea |
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Golf Wang |
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