paroles de chanson Yonkers (Live) - Tyler, The Creator

Wolf Haley, Golf Wang
I'm a fuckin' walkin' paradox, no I'm not
Threesomes with a fuckin' triceratops, Reptar
Rappin' as I'm mockin' deaf rock stars
Wearin' synthetic wigs made of Anwar's dreadlocks
Bedrock, harder than a muthafuckin' Flintstone
Makin' crack rocks outta pissy nigga fishbones
This nigga Jasper tryna get grown
About 5'7" of his bitches in my bedroom
Swallow the cinnamon, I'mma scribble this sinnin' shit
While Syd is tellin' me that she's been gettin' intimate with men
(Syd, shut the fuck up) Here's the number to my therapist
(Shit) Tell him all your problems, he's fuckin' awesome with listenin'
Jesus called, he said he's sick of the disses
I told him to quit bitchin' and this isn't a fuckin' hotline
For a fuckin' shrink, sheesh I already got mine
And he's not fuckin' workin', I think I'm wastin' my damn time
I'm clockin' three past six and goin' postal
This the revenge of the dicks, that's nine cocks that cock nines
This ain't no V Tech shit or Columbine
But after bowlin', I went home to some damn 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 fuckin' broad will never understand me
I'm not gay, I just wanna boogie to some Marvin
(What you think of Hayley Williams?) Fuck her, Wolf Haley robbin' 'em
I'll crash that fuckin' airplane that faggot nigga B.o.B is in
And stab Bruno Mars in his goddamn 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, fuck money, diamonds and bitches, 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 fuckin' leaves
It's been a couple months, and Tina still ain't perm her fuckin' weave, damn
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' faggot hipster with a Pitchfork
Still suicidal? I am
I'm Wolf, Tyler put this fuckin' knife in my hand
I'm Wolf, Ace gon' put that fuckin' hole in my head
And I'm Wolf, that was me who shoved a cock in your bitch
(What the fuck, man?) Fuck the fame and all the hype, G
I just wanna know if my father would ever like me
But I don't give a fuck so he's probably just like me
A muthafuckin' Goblin
(Fuck 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 shit, dead