Tyler the Creator & Earl Sweatshirt - Oldie | Текст песни

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• Tyler the Creator & Earl Sweatshirt
• Oldie

[Verse 1: Tyler the Creator]
Big eared bandit is tossin' all his manners
In a bag and wrappin' them in Saran wrap bandages
Tossin' 'em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
So when he says "Catch up, nigga" it looks like an accident
Um, flowin' like my pad is the maxiest
My bitch white and black like she's been mimickin' a panda
It's the dark skinned nigga, kissin' bitches in Canada
Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela
Put her in the chamber all against her Wilt Chamberlain
I never had a Reason, nigga I was just Ableton
Not a fuckin' Logic contradictin' dick head
Flyer than an ostrich moshin' 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
It's me (Tried to get that nigga, but, Golf Wang)

[Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt]
Look, for contrast, here's a pair of lips
Swallowin' Syrup and settin' fire to sheriff's whips
(Whoops, whoops!) fuckin' All-American terrorist
Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a fuckin' carrot stick
And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin'
And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
Spit til' the lips meet the bottom of a barrel, so that sterile piss
Flow remind these niggas where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Feral, fuckin' ill apparel, wearin' pack of parasites
Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di, back in here to fuck the party up
Raidin' fridges, tippin' over vases with a tommy gun
Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
And 60 day chips from fuckin' awesome anonymous
Call him bloated 'til he show 'em that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, Four Loko in a cobra clutch
Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho to pose as drum
And let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole is numb
The culprit of the potent punch
Scoldin' hot as dunkin' scrotum in a Folgers cup
Or Nevada, drivin' drunk inside a stolen truck
Shittin' like his colon bust
Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices
And roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as his porridge is
Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end
Post mortem porkin' this rap shit 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, ensurin' the bass
Scorchin', leave these motherfuckers sore in torso and face
Get at me, we savages, half a pack of Apache
Indian pack of niggas who don't give a fuck if we nasty as flatulence
As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky
So see me you can't like Crunchy Black catchin' a taxi
Uh, back like lateral passin'
With that mothafuckin' gladiator manner of rappin'
As an addict I let Percocet and Xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is Maxi, please

[Verse 9: Tyler the Creator]
OF, shit that's all I got
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
From that father figure Clancy to that skatey nigga Nak
Shreddin' down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the fuckin' 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 fucking beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop
This is for the niggers in the suburbs
And the white kids with nigger friends who say the n-word
And the ones that got called weird, fag, bitch, nerd
Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spi

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