The OF posse cut on the mixtape.

To consider Odd Future a viable franchise going forward, listeners needed reminding why they demanded such attention in the first place. Answering the call was the full-on… Read More [Intro: Taco & Tyler, the Creator]

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 Domyen, shouts out to Frankie Ocean

Shouts out to Syd the Dude

Shouts out to L-Boy, awwwwk

I told them niggas haha

[Verse 1: 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, "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 Ableton

Not a fucking Logic-contradicting dickhead (Not a Logic)

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 (Hahaha)

Previous items in the present

With the normal-ass past like I cheated on my team

It's me (Tried to get that nigga, but, Golf Wang see, he did come back, though)

[Verse 2: Hodgy]

To have some type of knowledge that is one perception

But knowin' you own your opponent is a defeatin' 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 joustin'

I'm on my Robin Hood shit, robbing in the hood

Whips, drugs, jewels and your pet, I'm stealin' your rims

Coke diamonds and your Vette, soldiers lace the fuckin' boot

And salute like the troop, when they shoot, you gon' brrrooop

It's KILLHodgy, nigga, stay the fuck off my stoop

And out my Kool-Aid, Juice

[Verse 3: Left Brain]

What's up, 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 ho, you call a ho, and all the hoes tell

You know Left Brain need a freak (Yeah)

I need a bitch to go down like Anita be

Yup, uh, and her ass fat

Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at

Nigga, I'm tryna smoke, bitch, get higher (What up, what up, what's up, smoke)

Domo, where that Flocka Flame? Talking '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 the black jack

The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac

We like the mafia, bitch, don't get to slacking up

And if these haters acting 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]

(We out here)

What the fuck is caution?

Often I leave 'em flossing in KAWS, exes next to coffins

Lost in translation, the dreams you chase

Got you diving for the plates like you stealing home base

That's great, I'm home alone dreaming of two on ones

With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on

And Travis is in the closet organizing and hanging the tramp

Three lettermans that Ace has been making him

No strays while we catching matinees, huh?

I'm getting 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-Lotta-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 anything I fuckin' drop

Bitch, I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Culk

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 hit list

And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff outta this bitch

Odd in your motherfuckin' area (Motherfuckin' area)

Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya

('Fore I bury ya)

Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya

(Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya)

Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carrey up

And fuck your team, ho, nigga, wassup? (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

[Interlude: Frank Ocean]

Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga

Right, right

[Verse 6: Frank Ocean]

Rent a supercar 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'ma get you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes

My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day

Course you know the vibe's just 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, fat burger and fries

Then I made a mil' and them psychics was liars

Now, how many fucking crystal balls can I buy and own?

Humble old me had to flex for the folks

Down in Muscle Beach pumping iron and bone

Bumping oldies off my cellular phone

Yeah, bumping oldies off my cellular phone

Bumping oldies off my cellular phone

[Interlude: Jasper Dolphin]

Goddammit!

Rapping is stupid and it's hard

Gotta do it over and over and over again but here it go

[Verse 7: 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 (Woo)

Still ignorant, still hit a bitch (Wow)

Wolf Gang, nigga, so I still don't give a shit (Woo)

Catch me in the back with Miley's on my lap (Shit)

Bong rips as I feel on that little bitch cat (Cat)

[Interlude: Jasper Dolphin & Earl Sweatshirt]

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

[Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt]

Look, for contrast, here's a pair of lips

Swallowin' sarapin, 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 Ferrisin'

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 niggas where embarrassed is

Narrow, tight line, might impair him since

I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type

Feral, fuckin' ill-apparel-wearin' pack of parasites

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 ho 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

And 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 bass

Scorchin', leave these motherfuckers sore in torso and face (Ugh)

Get at me, we savages, half 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 catchin' a taxi

Uh, back like lateral passin'

With that motherfuckin' gladiator manner of rappin'

As an addict, I let Percocet 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 Nak

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 fifteen 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 niggas in the suburbs

And the white kids with nigga friends that 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 critiquing and bitchin', bein' mad as fuck

Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as fuck, bitches

[Outro: Tyler, The Creator & Chloe Clancy]

OFM, bangin' on your FM

Gnaw, 2011, yeah

Golf Wang