lirik lagu tyler the creator – cult shit
[intro:]
i’m recordin’ that sh-t on the f-ckin’ little mic
by the little camera thing on the f-ckin’ mac book
so this sh-t is choppy and bad quality, but f-ck it
wolf gang, ace creator
[verse:]
somebody tell justin beiber that i’m f-ckin’ c-mmin’
ain’t no point in runnin’, i’m a n-gg-, just a little eager
so i catch him stretchin’, have him guessin’ where his cracker throat
chop his b-lls off and use his skin to make a baby coat
ain’t he dope? no, he the same as sh-t that tyler wrote
this is ace, wolf is in the back with travis snortin’ c-ke
riley’s here, connie’s dead, pickin’ p-ssy p-sses pike
she won’t leave, d-ck as big as kelly price’s appet-te
apprehend a couple men, triple six is f-ckin’ sin
make queen latifah and sydney go slap a couple dyk-s
wrap around ’til they hit the ground and they hear a sound
that doesn’t make sense like n-gg- kids wearing cap and gowns
this my alb-m, and when your parents try to come around
do the f-ckin’ exact opposite of turnin’ it down
and when they try to get parental and start talkin’ loud
tell them that you’re from the wolf gang and you’re f-ckin’ proud
then start barkin’ loud ’til the neighbors wanna calm you down
but call the pigs, will probably come in bout a half an hour
tell them that your sorry, you’re a cow, took a f-ckin’ shower
but make it in time for sh-tty re-runs of rocket power
this is the sh-t that is makin’ me cynical
the clinical attempts at schizophrenia’s critical
f-ckin’ voices follow me, emulatin’ like twitter roll
o.f. is the coldest thing, and i’m the f-ckin’ general
so when i mention suicide, i’m being mr. literal
the pope inside nine capsules, f-ck it let’s split a roll
life is like a phone booth, these pigeons is the f-ckin’ toll
1-800-f-ck-this-sh-t
seven years old in my heart, so i’m stayin’ gold
but when i f-ckin’ go, lucifer will probably have my soul
it’s hot down there, f-ck that, b-tch i’m hot as coals
out the microwave, mixed with a bowl of yellow raviol
and a firetruck and arizona durin’ summertime
in a turtle neck, thermal jeans, spit purple wine
wolf gang pete and gon’ live, running outta time
the f-ck i give is the same as the next line
[outro:]
(f-ck everything) that’s what my conscience said
then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
so the only guidance that i had is splattered on cement
actions speak louder than words, let me try this sh-t
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