Artist: Odd Future (OFWGKTA) Album: The Odd Future Tape Volume 2 Song: Oldie Typed by: OHHLA Webmaster DJ Flash [Taco] Yo shout out to everybody that worked on the album, you feel me son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle Shouts out to Dom-yen, shouts out to Frankie Ocean Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awwwwwww [Tyler, the Creator] The big-eared bandit is tossin all his manners in a bag and wrappin them in Saran wrap bandages Tossin 'em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches So when he says ketchup/catch-up, it looks like an accident Ummm, flowing like my pad is the maxiest My bitch white and black like she's been mimicking a panda It's the dark skinned nigga, kissing bitches in Canada Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela Put her in the chamber, all against her Wilt Chamberlain I never had a Reason, nigga I was just Ableton Not a fuckin logic, contradicting dick head Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit Semen scented cheetah printed tee In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season Previous items in the present With the normal-ass past like I cheated on my team It's me (Man, tried to get that nigga but, Golf Wang) [Hodgy Beats] To have some type of knowledge that is one perception but knowin you own your opponent is a defeating bonus I'm Zeus to a Kronos, cartilage cartridges boneless Smiles of cowards in lead showers Dead spouses in red blouses Children who fled houses on Mustang horses and went jousting I'm on my Robin Hood shit, robbin in the hood Whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet, I'm stealing your rims Coke diamonds and your Vette, soldiers lace the fuckin boot And salute like the troop, when they shoot you gon' BRRRP It's Kill Hodgy, nigga stay the fuck off my stoop And out my Kool-Aid... juice! [Left Brain] Whassup BITCH~?! Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin Jasper got the Henny, my nigga we get it in Wolf Gang party at the hotel I call a hoe, you call a hoe, and all the hoes tell You know Left Brain need a freak I need a bitch to go down like a Nitty beat Yup... uhh, and her ass fat Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at Nigga I'm tryin to smoke, bitch get higher Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin 'bout a lighter Still bang salute me or just shoot me Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting Yeah my nigga Ace will pull your blackjack The king Mike G's in the cut with the black Mac We like the mafia bitch, don't get to slackin up And if these haters actin up we throw 'em in the aquaduct Free my nigga Earl yo, I don't really ask for much but two bad bitches in front of me cunnilingus [Mike G] Y'all hear; what the fuck is caution? Often, I leave 'em flossin and cause exes next to coffins Lost in translation, the dreams you chase Got you divin for the plates like you stealin home base That's great! I'm home alone, dreamin of two on ones with Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on And Travis is in the closet organizin and hangin the tramp Three lettermans that Ace has been making him No strays while we catchin matinees, huh? I'm gettin blazed thinkin 'bout those days I had the top off the GT3 like toupees One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays My, grand scheme of things is to be attached to the game like bitches to their wedding rings And you don't even need to look, cause we gleam obscene In the light, ride slow to my yellow diamond shinin like the Batman logo over Gotham Rock L.A. to Harlem If you say "Get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em One man squadron, nigga I'm a problem From Briggs, I got bars and plans to pimp these Polish bitches into pop stars Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still And if I said it, then it is, or it's gonna be real O.F. 'til I OD and I probably will, uh [Domo Genesis] It's still Mr. Smoke-a-Lot-of-Pot, get your baby mommy popped with my other snobby bop, do I love her? Probably not Know your shit is not as hot as anythin I'll fuckin drop Bitch I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Caul' I've been runnin blocks since a snotty tot Big Wheel was a big deal with the water Glocks Now I'm all grown, same song, just a different waltz Fire what I talk, but still cooler than an Otter Pop Op, Dom next shit in your wish list Mad sick shit, mad dick for your bitches On some slick shit, your mistress on my hitlist And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff outta this bitch Odd in your muh'fuckin area Blood claats give me five feet 'fore I bury ya Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carrey up And fuck your team, hoe nigga whassup? Wolf Gang so you know we not givin no fucks You know me dawg, I'ma chill in the cut so I can cut it short, break it down, couple pounds and roll it up (Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga) [Frank Ocean] Rent a super car for a day Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze Bro easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day But just enough for a week, my nigga what can I say? I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight I'ma give you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes My brother give it some +Time+ Morris and Day Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes On the song, cut and you could sample the feel Headphone bleed, make this shit sound real Used to work the grill, Fatburger and fries Then I made a mill' and them psychics was liars Now, how many fuckin crystal balls can I buy and own? Humble old me had to flex for the folks Down in Muscle Beach pumping iron and bone Bumpin oldies off my cellular phone... Yeah, bumpin oldies off my cellular phone... Bumpin oldies off my cellular phone! (God dammit, this rappin is stupid and it's hard) (Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go) [Jasper Dolphin] Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor Pothead, half baked, lookin like Chappelle Rollin up a blunt with that fire from hell Still ignorant, still hit a bitch Wolf Gang nigga, so I still don't give a shit Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap Bong rips as I feel on that little bitch cat Hah, nigga came through with a 9 bar real quick Just for the bitches, little bit of money in my pocket Fuck it, Wolf Gang (Yeah... fuck that!! Haha) [Earl Sweatshirt] Look, for contrast here's a pair of lips Swallowin syrup and settin fire to sheriff's whips (Whoops whoops) Fuckin All-American terrorist Crushin rapper larynx to feed 'em a fuckin carrot stick And me? I just spent a year Ferris'n and lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is Spit til' the lips meet the bottom of a barrel So that sterile piss flow remind these niggaz where embarrassed is Narrow, tight line, might impair him since I made it back to Fahrenheit and grimey get dinero type Feral, fuckin ill apparel, wearin pack of parasites And threw his own youth off the roof after paradise La-Di-Da-Di back in here to fuck the party up Raidin fridges, tippin over vases with a tommy gun Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks And sixty day chips from fuckin awesome anonymous Call him bloated 'til he show 'em that the flow deluxe Off the wall loafers, Four Loko in a cobra clutch Vocals bold and rough, evoke a hoe to pose as drum and let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole is numb The culprit of the potent punch Scoldin hot as dunkin scrotum in a Folgers cup or Nevada, drivin drunk inside a stolen truck, shittin like his colon bust Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum Supernova, I'm rollin over the novices and roamin through the forest and spittin cold as his porridge is Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end Post-mortem porkin this rap shit and record it to escort it to the morgue again, lord of lips, bored of this Forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list Stormin the gate, ensurin the fate Scorchin, leave these motherfuckers sore in torso and face Uhh~! Get at me, we savages, half a pack of Apache Indian pack of niggaz who don't give a fuck if we nasty as flatulence As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky So see me you can't, like Crunchy Black catchin a taxi Uh, back like lateral passing with that motherfuckin gladiator manner of rapping As an addict I let Percocet and Xannies relax me Fall back if your paddies is maxi, please [Tyler, the Creator] OF, shit that's all I got From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac' From that father figure Clancy to that skatey nigga Naks Shreddin down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the fuckin block Storefront, knee tat Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks And grip tape... and my shoes, um I was 15 when I first drew that donut Five years later for our label, yeah we own it I started an empire, I ain't even old enough to drink a fucking beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop This is for the niggers in the suburbs And the white kids with nigger friends who say the n-word And the ones who got called weird, fag, bitch, nerd cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg They say we ain't actin right Always try to turn our fuckin color into black and white But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em Radical's my anthem, turn my fuckin amps up!!! So instead of critiquin and bitchin, bein mad as fuck Just admit not only are we talented, we're rad as fuck Bitches... O.F.M., bangin on your FM Gnaw 2011... yeah {GOLF WANG!!}