Oldie Lyrics – Earl Sweatshirt

[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 Domyen, shouts out to Frankie Ocean Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awwwwk [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***a” it looks like an accident Um, flowin’ like my pad is the maxiest My b**h white and black like she’s been mimickin’ a panda It’s the dark skinned n***a, kissin’ b**hes 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***a I was just Ableton Not a f**in’ 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 a** past like I cheated on my team It’s me (Tried to get that n***a, but, Golf Wang) [Verse 2: Hodgy Beats] 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**, robbing in the hood Whips, d**, j**els, and your pet, I’m stealin’ your rims Coke diamonds and your Vette, soldiers lace the f**in’ boot And salute like the troop when they shoot you gon’ brrrooop It’s KILLHodgy, n***a, stay the f** 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***a 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**h to go down like a Nitty beat Yup, uh, and her a** fat Don’t be surprised if I ask where the hash at n***a I’m tryna smoke, b**h get higher 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***a Ace will pull the black jack The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac We like the mafia, b**h, don’t get to slacking up And if these haters acting up, throw ’em in the aqueduct Free my n***a Earl, yo, I don’t really ask for much But two bad b**hes in front of me cunnilingus [Verse 4: Mike G] What the f** 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**hes 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***a I’m a problem From Briggs I got bars and plans to Pimp these Polish b**hes into pop stars Humanity k**s, 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 snobby bop, do I love her? Prolly not Know your sh** is not as hot as anything I f**in’ drop b**h I’m in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay co*k 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** in your wish list Mad sick sh**, mad dick for your b**hes On some slick sh**, your mistress on my hit list And I’m lifted ’til I’m stiff outta this b**h Odd in your mothaf**in’ 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 Carrey up And f** your team, ho n***a wa**up Wolf Gang so you know we not giving no f**s 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] 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***a what can I say I’m hi and I’m bi, wait I mean I’m straight I’mma 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** sound real Used to work the grill, Fatburger and fries Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars Now, how many f**ing crystal balls 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 [Interlude: Jasper Dolphin] Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it’s hard Gotta do it over and over and over again but here 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 hell Still ignorant, still hit a b**h Wolf Gang, n***a, so I still don’t give a sh** Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap Bong rips as I feel on that little b**h cat [Interlude] Hah, n***a came through with a 9 bar real quick Just for the b**hes, little bit of money in my pocket f** it, Wolf Gang (Yeah, f** that) [Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt] Look, for contrast, here’s a pair of lips Swallowin’ sarapin and settin’ fire to sheriff’s whips (Whoops, whoops!) f**in’ All-American terrorist Crushin’ rapper larynx to feed ’em a f**in’ 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 n***as where embarra**ed is Narrow, tight line, might impair him since I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type Feral, f**in’-ill-apparel-wearin’ pack of parasites Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise La di da di, back in here to f** 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 f**in’ awesome anonymous Call him bloated ’til he show ’em that the flow deluxe Off the wall loafers, Four Loko and 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 sh**tin’ 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** 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 ba** Scorchin’, leave these motherf**ers sore in torso and face Get at me, we savages, half a pack of Apache Indian pack of n***as who don’t give a f** 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 pa**in’ With that mothaf**in’ 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** that’s all I got From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac From that father figure Clancy to that skatey n***a Nak Shreddin’ down ‘Fax, Wolf Gang run the f**in’ 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**ing beer, I’m tipsy off this soda pop This is for the n***a in the suburbs And the white kids with n***a friends who say the n-word And the ones that got called weird, f*g, b**h, nerd Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg They say we ain’t actin’ right Always try to turn our f**in’ color into black and white But they’ll never change ’em, never understand ’em Radical’s my anthem, turn my f**ing amps up So instead of critiquing and b**hin’, bein’ mad as f** Just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as f**, b**hes [Outro] OFM, banging on your FM Gnaw, 2011, yeah, Golf Wang

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