Текст песни Domo (Live) - Tyler, The Creator

Sick to my motherfucking tummy
Bitch must think I'm a motherfucking dummy
Because I dress bummy, bitch think I'm broke
Bitch, I ate one roach and I made a lot of money
Popping since Bastard, Clancy is my slave master
I've never popped a bottle, but I've fucked a couple models in Europe
Yup, and a couple of them swallowed
Meet me half way, bitch I'm going all in
And I never pull back, shout-out to my nigga Taco
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)
So, a couple fags threw a little hissfit
Came to Pitchfork with a couple Jada Pinkett signs
And said I was a racist homophobic
So I grabbed Lucas and filmed us kissing
Feelings getting caught, it's off, I'm pissing
You think I give a fuck? I ain't even stick my dick in yet
(No homo; too soon.)
And while y'all are rolling doobies
I be in my bedroom scoring movies
Still, I'm sounding like a fucking newbie
Suck my dick, motherfucker, sue me
Mom got a new whip so she could scoop me
A year ago, I ain't have no hoopty
Four story home, gotta climb eight sets of stairs
Just to see where my fucking roof be
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)
Wait a God damn second
I'm tripping balls, David Beckham
Will fall cause shit's going down
Just like Rodney King's swimming lessons
Now me and Justin smoke sherm and been talking 'bout freeing perm
And purchasing weapons naming them and aim them in One Direction
(Wait a minute)
It sounds like midgets in a God damn speaker
Every time you play this shit loud
But that's just me trying to get milk now
Instead of grunts from a God damn cow
Hit me on my beeper while Captain sucks my Peter
Pan camera, repeat procedure
And when the beat drops, have a God damn seizure
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)
You remind me of my bimmer
A lot of trunk space, the perfect two seater
And you got a lot of drive I'm trying to keep her
But it's not a lot of miles on ya meter
You remind me of my bimmer
See your ignition, baby girl I'm trying to key up
And your headlights are off I'm trying to see 'em
But it's not a lot of miles on ya meter
So let me start it up, and smash it
Pop some Tame Impala, your man got a lame impala
(And it's dark outside)
And I'm sharing slurpies and you ain't even begin to swallow
(Oooooo)
You're fucking nuts, brim top we coupled up
Run my fingers through 'em as you wax and buff my muffler
Cause I fingered you, you think a fucking ring is coming up?
(Oooooo)
Maybe I don't know I think you're chilled
(Ride for)
Riding on my pegs, my back against ya legs
And a seatbelt is needed if I get between 'em, yea
You remind me of my-
Cut it out!