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lirik lagu tyler the creator – yonkers



[verse 1]
i’m a f-ckin’ walkin’ paradox, no i’m not
threesomes with a f-ckin’ triceratops, reptar
rappin’ as i’m mockin’ deaf rock stars
wearin’ synthetic wigs made of anwar’s dreadlocks
bedrock, harder than a m-th-f-ckin’ flintstone
makin’ crack rocks outta p-ssy n-gg- fishbones
this n-gg- jasper tryna get grown
about 5’7″ of his b-tches in my bedroom
swallow the cinnamon, i’mma scribble this sinnin’ sh-t
while syd is tellin’ me that she’s been gettin’ intimate with men
(syd, shut the f-ck up) here’s the number to my therapist
(sh-t) tell him all your problems, he’s f-ckin’ awesome with listenin’

[verse 2]
jesus called, he said he’s sick of the disses
i told him to quit b-tchin’ and this isn’t a f-ckin’ hotline
for a f-ckin’ shrink, sheesh i already got mine
and he’s not f-ckin’ workin’, i think i’m wastin’ my d-mn time
i’m clockin’ three past six and goin’ postal
this the revenge of the d-cks, that’s nine c-cks that c-ck nines
this ain’t no v tech sh-t or columbine
but after bowlin’, i went home to some d-mn adventure time
(what’d you do?) i slipped myself some pink zannies
and danced around the house in all-over print panties
my mom’s gone, that f-ckin’ broad will never understand me
i’m not gay, i just wanna boogie to some marvin
(what you think of hayley williams?) f-ck her, wolf haley robbin’ ’em
i’ll crash that f-ckin’ airplane that f-ggot n-gg- b.o.b is in
and stab bruno mars in his godd-mn esophagus
and won’t stop until the cops come in
i’m an over acheiver, so how ’bout i start a team of leaders
and pick up stevie wonder to be the wide receiver
green paper, gold teeth and pregnant gold retrievers
all i want, f-ck money, diamonds and b-tches, don’t need ’em
but where the fat ones at? i got somethin’ to feed ’em
in some cookin’ books, the black kids never wanted to read ’em
snap back, green ch-ch-chia f-ckin’ leaves
it’s been a couple months, and tina still ain’t perm her f-ckin’ weave, d-mn

[verse 3]
they say success is the best revenge
so i beat deshay up with the stack of magazines i’m in
oh, not again, another critic writin’ report
i’m stabbin’ any bloggin’ f-ggot hipster with a pitchfork
still suicidal? i am
i’m wolf, tyler put this f-ckin’ knife in my hand
i’m wolf, ace gon’ put that f-ckin’ hole in my head
and i’m wolf, that was me who shoved a c-ck in your b-tch
(what the f-ck, man?) f-ck the fame and all the hype, g
i just wanna know if my father would ever like me
but i don’t give a f-ck so he’s probably just like me
a m-th-f-ckin’ goblin
(f-ck everythin’, man) that’s what my conscience said
then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
now the only guidance that i had is splattered on cement
actions speak louder than words, let me try this sh-t, dead