Oldie Lyrics - The Of Tape Vol. 2 - Odd Future

[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 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 tossin' all his manners 

In a bag and wrappin' them in seran 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 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 shit, robbing in the hood 

Whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet, I'm stealin' your rings 

Coke diamonds and your Vet, soldiers lace the fuckin' boot 

And salute like the troop when you shoot you gon' poop 

It's KillHodgy, nigga, stay the fuck 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 nigga 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 bitch to go down like a Nitty beat 

Yup, uh, and her ass fat 

Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at 

Nigga I'm tryna smoke, bitch 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 nigga Ace will pull the black jack 

The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac 

Living like the Mafia, bitch, don't get to slacking up 

And if these haters acting up, throw 'em in the aqueduct 

Free my nigga Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much 

But two bad bitches in front of me cunnilingus 

[Verse 4: Mike G] 

What the fuck is caution? 

Often I leave you flossing and cause 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 bitches 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, nigga I'm a problem 

From Briggs I got bars and plans to 

Pimp these Polish bitches 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-Lotta-Pot, get your baby mommy popped 

With my other snobby bop, do I love her? prolly not 

Know your shit is not as hot as anything I fuckin' drop 

Bitch I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Cock 

I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot 

Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glocks 

Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts 

Fire what I talk, but still cooler than an Otter Pop 

Op Dom neck shit in your wish list 

Mad sick shit, mad dick for your bitches 

On some slick shit, your mistress on my hit list 

And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this bitch 

Odd in your mothafuckin' 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 fuck your team, ho nigga wassup 

Wolf Gang so you know we not giving no fucks 

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 nigga 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 shit sound real 

Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries 

Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars 

Now, how many fucking crystal balls can I buy and own 

Humble old me had to flex for the fogs 

Down in Muscle Beach pumping iron and bone 

Bumping oldies off my cellular phone 

Yeah, bumping oldies off my cellular phone 

[Interlude] 

Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it's hard 

Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I 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 bitch 

Wolf Gang, nigga, so I still don't give a shit 

Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap 

Bong rips as I feel on that little bitch cat 

[Interlude] 

Hah, nigga came through with a 9 bar real quick 

Just for the bitches, little bit of money in my pocket 

Fuck it, Wolf Gang 

[Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt] 

Yeah, fuck that, look, for contrast is a pair of lips 

Swallowin' sarapin, settin' fires to sheriffs whips 

(Whoosp, whoosp) 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 to 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, 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 was 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 

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 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' ladies motherfucker sore in torso and face 

Get at me with savages, have 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 

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 Naks 

Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the fucking 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 Spielberg 

They say we ain't acting right 

Always try to turn our fucking color into black and white 

But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em 

Radical's my anthem, turn my fucking amps up 

So instead of critiquing and bitching, being mad as fuck 

Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as fuck, bitches 

[Outro] 

OFM, banging on your FM 

Gnaw, 2011, yeah, Golf Wang