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lirik lagu oldie – odd future wolf gang kill them all

(feat. tyler, the creator, hodgy beats, left brain, mike g, domo genesis, frank ocean, syd da kyd, jasper dolphin & earl sweatshirt)

[intro: taco]
yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the alb*m
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*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 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 *ss past like i cheated on my team
man (tried to get that n*gg*, 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 and went jousting
i’m on my robin hood sh*t
robbin’ in the hood: whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet
stealing your rings, c*ke diamonds and your vet
soldiers lace the f*ckin’ boot
and salute like the troop when you shoot you gon’ p**p
it’s killhodgy, n*gg*, 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*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
i need a b*tch to go down like a nitty beat
yup, uh, and her *ss fat
don’t be surprised if i ask where the hash at
n*gg* 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*gg* 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*gg* earl, yo, i don’t really ask for much
but two bad b*tches in front of me c*nn*l*ng*s

[verse 4: mike g]
what the f*ck is caution?
often i leave you flossin’ and cause exes 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*gg* 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 sn*bby 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 c*ck
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*gg* w*ssup
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

(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*gg* what can i say
i’m high and i’m bi, wait i mean i’m straight
i’m a give 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 b*lls 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, b*mpin’ 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 h*ll
still ignorant, still hit a b*tch
wolf gang, n*gg*, 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*gg* 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, for 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 p*ss flow remind these n*gg*s where embarr*ssed is
narrow, tight line, might impair him
since i made it back to fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
pharoah f*ckin’ pillow tear wearin’ pack of parasite
threw his own loofa off the roof after paradise
la di da di 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 scr*t*m 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
fortunately these motherf*ckers soarin’, torso and face
get at me with savages, have 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 cats in a taxi
back like lateral p*ssing
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

[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* 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 n*gg*rs in the suburbs
and the white kids with n*gg*r 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*tching, being mad as f*ck
just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as f*ck

ofm, bangin’ on your fm
gnaw, 2011, yea
golf wang

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