Tyler, The Creator - Cult Shit Lyrics

Tyler, The Creator Lyrics

Cult Shit Lyrics
I'm recordin this shit on the f*ckin little mic
by the little, camera thing on the f*ckin Macbook so...
This shit is choppy and bad quality, but f*ck it
Wolf Gang, Ace Creator..

Somebody tell Justin Beiber that I'm f*ckin comin
Ain't no point in runnin, I'm an eager, just a little queeger
So I catch him stretchin, have him guessin where his cracker throat
Chop his balls off and use his skin to make a baby coat
Ain't he dope? No, (OH!) he the same as shit that Tyler wrote
This is Ace, Wolf is in the back with Travis snortin coke
Riley's here, Connie's dead, pickin pussy pissin pike
She won't leave, dick as big as Kelly Price's appetite
Apprehend a couple men, triple six is f*ckin sin
Make Queen Latifah and Sydney go slap a couple dykes
Wrap around until they hit the ground and they hear a sound
that doesn't make sense like nigger kids wearin cap and gowns
This my album, 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 'em that you're from the WOLF GANG and you're f*ckin proud
Then start barkin loud (AH!) 'til the neighbors wanna calm you down
But call the pigs who prol'ly come near in 'bout a half an hour
Tell them that you're sorry, you're a cow, took a f*ckin shower
But make it in time for shitty re-runs of Rocket Power (okay)
This is the shit 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 bein Mr. Literal
Then poke inside nine capsules, F*CK it let's split a roll
Life is like a phone booth, these pigeons is the f*ckin toll
Seven years old in my heart, so I'm stayin gold
But when I f*ckin' go, Lucifer will prol'ly have my soul
It's hot down there - F*CK that, bitch I'm hot as coals
Out the microwave, mixed with a bowl of yellow raviol'
Yellow firetruck and Arizona during summertime
in a turtle neck, thermal jeans, spin purple wine
Wolf Gang 'petein, gon' live, runnin outta time
..The f*ck I give is the same as the next line
[two bars length of silence]
(F*CK EVERYTHING) 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...

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