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letra de oldiee - odd future

[intro: taco & tyler, the creator]
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 domyen, shouts out to frankie ocean
shouts out to syd the dude
shouts out to l-boy, awwwwk
i told you

[verse 1: tyler, the creator]
the 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, n!gg@,” 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!gg@, kissing b-tches 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, n!gg@, i was just ableton
not a f-cking logic-contradicting d-ckhead (not a logic)
flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
s-m-n-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 n!gg@, but, golf w-ng see, he did come back, though)

[verse 2: hodgy]
to have some type of knowledge that is one perception
but knowin’ you own your opponent is a defeatin’ 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 and went joustin’
i’m on my robin hood sh-t, robbing in the hood
whips, drugs, jewels and your pet, i’m stealin’ your rims
coke diamonds and your vette, soldiers lace the f-ckin’ boot
and salute like the troop, when they shoot, you gon’ brrrooop
it’s k!llhodgy, n!gg@, stay the f-ck off my stoop
and out my kool-aid, juice

[verse 3: left brain]
what’s up, b-tch?
hodgy got the juice, i got the gin
jasper got the henny, my n!gg@, 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 (yeah)
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!gg@, i’m tryna smoke, b-tch, get higher (what up, what up, what’s up, smoke)

domo, where that flocka flame? talking ’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
yeah, my n-gga ace will pull the black jack
the king mike g is in the cut with the black mac
we like the mafia, b-tch, don’t get to slacking up
and if these haters acting up, throw ’em in the aqueduct
free my n!gg@ earl, yo, i don’t really ask for much
but two bad b-tches in front of me cunnilingus

[verse 4: mike g]
(we out here)
what the f-ck is caution?
often i leave ’em flossing in kaws, exes next to coffins
lost in translation, the dreams you chase
got you diving for the plates like you stealing home base
that’s great, i’m home alone dreaming of two on ones
with rihanna and christina milian, bring it on
and travis is in the closet organizing and hanging the tramp
three lettermans that ace has been making him
no strays while we catching matinees, huh?
i’m getting 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!gg@, i’m a problem
from briggs, i got bars and plans to
pimp these polish b-tches into pop stars
humanity k!lls, 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-lotta-pot, get your baby mommy popped
with my other sn0bby bop, do i love her? probably 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 c-ck
i’ve been runnin’ blocks since a snotty tot
big wheel was a big deal with the water glocks
now i’m all grown, same song, just a different waltz
fire what i talk, but still cooler than an otter pop
op, dom next sh-t in your wish list
mad sick sh-t, mad d-ck for your b-tches
on some sl!ck sh-t, your mistress on my hit list
and i’m lifted ’til i’m stiff outta this b-tch
odd in your motherf-ckin’ area (motherf-ckin’ area)
blood clots give me five feet ‘fore i bury ya
(‘fore i bury ya)
suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
(suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya)
tyler got the mask like he held jim carrey up
and f-ck your team, ho, n!gg@, wassup? (wassup?)
wolf gang so you know we not givin’ no f-cks
you know me dog, i’m a chill in the cut
so i can cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up

[interlude: frank ocean]
get me a persian rug where the center looks like galaga
right, right

[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!gg@, what can i say?
i’m high and i’m bi, 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 just 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, fat burger and fries
then i made a mil’ and them psychics was liars
now, how many f-cking crystal b-lls can i buy and own?
humble old me had to flex for the folks
down in muscle beach pumping iron and bone
bumping oldies off my cellular phone
yeah, bumping oldies off my cellular phone
bumping oldies off my cellular phone

[interlude: jasper dolphin]
goddammit!
rapping is stupid and it’s hard
gotta do it over and over and over again but hear it go

[verse 7: jasper dolphin]
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 h-ll (woo)
still ignorant, still hit a b-tch (wow)
wolf gang, n!gg@, so i still don’t give a sh-t (woo)
catch me in the back with miley’s on my lap (sh-t)
bong rips as i feel on that little b-tch cat (cat)

[interlude: jasper dolphin & earl sweatshirt]
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
yeah, f-ck that

[verse 8: earl sweatshirt]
look, for contrast, here’s a pair of lips
swallowin’ sarapin, settin’ fire to sheriff’s whips
(whoops, whoops!) 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 ’til the lips meet the bottom of a barrel, so that sterile p-ss
flow remind these n!gg@s where embarrassed is
narrow, tight line, might impair him since
i made it back to fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
feral, f-ckin’ ill-apparel-wearin’ pack of parasites
threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
la di da di, back in here to f-ck the party up
raidin’ fridges, tippin’ over vases with a tommy gun
never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
and sixty-day chips from f-ckin’ 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’ scr-t-m in a folgers cup
or nevada, drivin’ drunk inside a stolen truck
and sh-ttin’ 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 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, ensurin’ the bass
scorchin’, leave these motherf-ckers sore in torso and face (ugh)
get at me, we savages, half a pack of apache
indian pack of n!gg@s 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 catchin’ a taxi
uh, back like lateral passin’
with that motherf-ckin’ 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, 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!gg@ nak
shreddin’ 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 fifteen when i first drew that donut
five years later, for our label, yeah, we own it
i started an empire, i ain’t even old enough
to drink a f-cking beer, i’m tipsy off this soda pop
this is for the n!ggers in the suburbs
and the white kids with n!gg@ friends who say the n-word
and the ones that got called weird, f-g, 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-tchin’, bein’ mad as f-ck
just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as f-ck, b-tches

[outro: tyler, the creator]
ofm, banging on your fm
gnaw, 2011, yeah
golf w-ng

- odd future

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