Against The Current ☆ Ain’t It Fun

[Intro: 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 Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean
Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk

[Verse 1: Tyler the Creator]
Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners
In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages
Tossing them in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
So when he says “catch up, nigga” it looks like an accident
Um, 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 able
Not a fucking 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
Man (tried to get that nigga, but, Golf Wang)

[Verse 2: Hodgy Beats]
To have some type of knowledge that is one perception
But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus
I’m Zeus to a Kronos
Cartilage cartridge is 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
Stealing your rings, coke diamonds and your Vet
Soldiers lace the fuckin’ boot
And salute like the troop when you shoot you gon’ poop
It’s Killhodgy, nigga, stay the fuck off my stoop
And out my Kool aid, Juice

[Verse 3: Left Brain]
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 ho, you call a ho, and all the hoes tell
You know Left Brain need a freak
I need a bitch to go down like a Nitty beat
Yup, uh, 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
Yea my nigga Ace will pull the black jack
The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
Livin’ like the Mafia, bitch, don’t get to slacking up
And if these haters actin’ up, throw ’em in the aqueduct
Free my nigga Earl, yo, I don’t really ask for much
But two bad bitches in front of me cunnilingus

[Verse 4: Mike G]
What the fuck is caution?
Often I leave you flossin’ and cause exes next to coffins
Lost in translation, the dreams you chase
Got you diving 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 organizing and hangin’ the tramp
Three lettermans that Ace has been makin’ him
No strays while we catchin’ matinees, huh?
I’m gettin’ blazed thinking ’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 shining like the Batman logo over Gotham
Rock LA 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
OF ’til I OD and I probably will, uh

[Verse 5: 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, prolly not
Know your shit is not as hot as anything I fuckin’ drop
Bitch I’m in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Cock
I’ve been runnin’ blocks since a snotty tot
Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock
Now I’m all grown, sing songs just to give ’em watts
Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop
Op Dom neck shit in your wish list
Mad sick shit, mad dick for your bitches
On some slick shit, your mistress on my hit list
And I’m lifted ’til I’m stiff out of this bitch
Odd in your motherfuckin’ area
Blood clots give me five feet ‘fore I bury ya
Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up
And fuck your team, ho nigga wassup
Wolf Gang so you know we not givin’ no fucks
You know me dog, I’m a chill in the cut so I can
Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up

(Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga)

[Verse 6: 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 high and I’m bi, wait I mean I’m straight
I’m a 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 mil and them psychics was liars
Now, how many fuckin’ crystal balls can I buy and own
Humble old me had to flex for the fogs
Down in Muscle Beach pumpin’ iron and bone
Bumpin’ oldies off my cellular phone
Yea, bumpin’ oldies off my cellular phone

[Verse 7: Jasper Dolphin]
Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it’s hard
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go
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
Pot head, 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

[Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt]
Yeah, fuck that
Look, for contrast is a pair of lips
Swallowin’ syrup and settin’ fires to sheriffs whip
Fuckin’ all american terrorist
Crushin’ rapper larynx to feed ’em a fuckin’ carrot stick
And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin’
And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel
So that sterile piss flow remind these niggas where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him
Since I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Pharoah fuckin’ ill apperal wearin’ pack of parasite
Then threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di back in here to fuck the party up
Raiding fridges, tipping over vases with a tommy gun
Never dollars, pop would make it rain hockey pucks
60 day chips from fuckin’ awesome anonymous
Call him bloated ’til he show them that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, four loko, and a cobra clutch
Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho’ to pose his drum
Let me hit him, hit it with a stick until the ho was numb
Culprit of the potent punch
Scolding hot as dunking scrotum in a Folgers cup – or Nevada
Driving drunk inside a stolen truck
Shitting like his colon bust
Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
Supernova, I’m rollin’ over the novices
I’m roamin’ through the forest and spittin’ cold as the 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, who’s sure in the base, scorching ladies
Fortunately these motherfuckers soarin’, torso and face
Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache
Indian pack of niggas 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 cats in a taxi
Back like lateral passing
With that motherfucking gladiator manner of rapping
As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is Maxi
Please

[Verse 9: 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
Shredding 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
5 years later, for our label yea we own it
I started an empire, I ain’t even old enough
To drink a fuckin’ 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 that 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 critiquing and bitching, being mad as fuck
Just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as fuck
Bitches