[Verse 1: Domo Genesis]
Watch me get this money nigga, tired of being hungry nigga
Nothing funny, sass me while Iím thrashing, Iímma punch a nigga
Never made of plastic, Iím a savage, you look lunch my nigga
Passing all you hating fucking fags we donít discuss, my nigga
We ainít on no jolly shit, and we donít pop no mollies, bitch
Iím honkiní, spitting got some niggas out here poppiní nollie switch
Buncha novices, Odd Future the squad, it's thick.
Them young niggas is back and brash, attacking with no common sense
We the last of a dying breed, and we donít give a fuck
So we can not supply your needs
You stupid niggas who had said our hype is dying, please
My pocketís solid, making profit off the highest tees, bitch
Bitch, [?] I get on the verse, cursiní
Nigga Doms so cool, I refer him in third person.
Watch me get this money, Iím up when the birds chirping
Make actions, fuck rehearsing
[Hook: Domo Genesis x2]
Nigga, summer, fall, winter-time, 24/365
You niggas goní give me mine, I donít have plenty time
Flying out at any time. Getting money, any grind
You niggas goní give me mine. You niggas goní give me mine
[Verse 2: Tyler, the Creator]
In a world where kids my age are popping mollies, with leather
Sitting on Tumblr, never outside there enjoying the weather
Can name a sweater, but not a talent
Or donít know if whether or not they got one
Tried to change their life for the better
I was a drama club kid. I run with the fun dip. My nuts itched
I was defiant, always said, ďFuck shitĒ
Hated the popular ones, now Iím the popular one
Also hated homes too, til I start coppiní me some
See I donít beez in the trap, nigga, I beez in the bís
And I be gassiní in my buzz like some bees in a shell
Fucking sick and getting bigger like I sneezed on Adele
And bitches getting touchy-feely like they reading some braille
I bust quick like gun-holders with short tempers, and well
I tried to tell the kids, like fuck it, start being yourself
These fucking rappers got stylist, itís cause they canít think for themselves
See, they donít have an identity, so they needed some help, but
Really, boy? Posers looking silly boy
Iím in that past season ĎPreme shit, older than Tity Boi
Not a diss, but same with ice cream, my shit is [Diddy Riese]
Naíkel Smith. Trans-World page 64
Poppiní like oil, ollies, and fire flames
Iím harder than DJ Khaled playing the fucking quiet game
The fuck am I saying? Tylerís not even a violent name
Iím íbout as threatening as stained windbreakers in hurricanes
But he rapes women, and spit wrong, like he hate dentists
God damn menace, 666 and heís not finished
And my shitís missing, he hates women, but loves kittens
See yíall niggas trippiní man
Look at that article that says my subject matter is wrong
Saying I hate gays even though Frank is on 10 of my songs
Look at that Mom who thinks Iím evil, hold that grudge against me
Though Iím the reason that her motherfucking son got to eat
Look at the kid who had the 9 and tried to blow out his mind
But talk is money, I said, ďHi, Ē I guess I bought him some time
Look at the ones in the crowd. That shit is barnacles, huh?
They thought I wasnít fair until I threw a carnival, huh?
But then again, Iím an athiest, that just worships Satan,
And itís probably why Iím not getting no fucking album placements
And MTV could suck my dick, and I ainít fuckiní playing
Bruh, they never played it, I just won shit for their fucking ratings
ďAnalogĒ fans are getting sick of the rape
All the ďTron CatĒ fans are getting sick of the lakes
But what about me, bitch? Iím getting sick of complaints
But I donít hate it when Iím taking daily trips to the bank
Over and over, shit, who gives a fuck what I think?
My fans donít think turning on me, shit, theyíre almost extinct
Fuck buying studio time. Iímma go purchase a shrink
Record the session and send all you motherfuckers a link, bitch
[Hook: Domo Genesis]
Nigga, summer, fall, winter-time. 24/365.
You niggas goní give me mine, I donít have plenty time.
Flying out at any time. Getting money, any grind.
You niggas goní give me mine. You niggas goní give me mine.
[Verse 3: Earl Sweatshirt]
This shitís just like the nights I look forward to not remembering.
So much for being sober, I hope that you can forgive me
But Momma, Iím close to the edge as possible (Why donít you jump you fucking pussy?)
All Iím seeing is the drop in my occular, jumping like they told me
That the 40′s half off, like you know that cliff.
Donít need a therapist to tell him he could float that shit (Fucking faggot).
And compare to fucking pair Ďem with all the program kits
So maybe a pair of pale bitches for the gonads lick (Iíll show you).
Malt liquor filling me up, and all us not giving no fucks and
All of them sensitive chumps in awe whenn that pistol erupts (Pistol, I got one! ).
Dirty been spittiní the sumpy raw till his wrists in the cuffs
(Oh, shut the fuck up! ).
Salem was mine, bitch!
Was that good enough, you fucking pussy?