Fucking Lame

Tyler, The Creator

Verse 1

I’m rolling through Ladera in a Bimmer looking cleaner
Drinking on the blueberry Slurpee, eating that fajita
My passenger seat is occupied by Senorita
And mother keeps on bugging me about wanting to meet her
I don’t really need her, I’m just tryna treat her real nice
So later on, up in the night, I could go beat her
And make a lie about the gonorrhea
So she don’t feel guilty about me wanting to leave her
That “fuck” on my t-shirt print is cheetah
And I got that ’87 bunny flow, like an Easter
Basket, you faggots, is plastic, like nerds with old glasses
But I’m still liable to get my ass kicked
Conned-Sort actor, a Baby Milo addict in the attic
Where you losers can’t get me
Nikon and the Canon, they were never the same
And please do not take a picture, I can’t be seen with you lames

Hook

Man, y’all some muthafuckin’ lames
Man, y’all some muthafuckin’ lames
Don’t lie to yourself, y’all some lames
Man, y’all some lames
The Canon don’t flash, y’all some lames
I cannot be seen with you lames
You mothafuckas is some lames

Verse 2

Can’t stop for, flashing, like a cop car
Me and.. rock well, I’m a rock star
Fuck y’all the O.F. is banging on ’em
Custom Crew-necks Rollin’ while we’re Ronald Regan on ’em
Y’all drug dealers, I Carl Sagan on ’em
Chop and screw Nas tracks, I got piano’s waiting on ’em
My shirt is yellow, but the grill is gold
I couldn’t take the Ritalin cause my therapist said the pill is old
I can’t skate, but I guess that’s lost control
I don’t have sense, sorry I sold my soul
For some gold Bapes low-price, stale rate
Authentic, never fake, check the poll, our statistic
Stay with authentics, check my steelo
Cause my mob’s goodie like we Ceelo
And he know, I am yes and even she know
Every instrument is a gram, kilo

Outro

OFM, Bangin’ on your FM

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