Tyler, The Creator — Fucking Lame

[Verse 1: Tyler, the Creator] I'm rolling through Ladera in a Bimmer looking cleaner Drinking on a blueberry Slurpee, eating that fajita My passenger seat is occupied by señorita 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 And later on, up in the night, I could go eat 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 Kinda sorta active, 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: Tyler, the Creator] 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 l— fuckin' lames The Canon don't flash, y'all some lames I cannot be seen with you lames You mothafuckas is— lames [Break: Tyler, the Creator] Ahem Tyler, the Creator Ugh [Verse 2: Tyler, the Creator] Can't stop, fall, flashing, like a cop car Me and— ("Yay"), no Rockwell, I'm a rock star Fuck y'all, the O.F. is banging on 'em Custom crewnecks rolling 'round with Ronald Regan on 'em ("Yay") 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 Rit-lin 'cause my therapist said the pill is old I can't stay [?] 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 statistics Stay with authentics, check my steelo Cause my mob's goodie like we Cee-Lo, and he know I am, yes, and even she know Every instrument is a gram, kilo ("Yay") [Outro: Tyler, the Creator] O.F.M. Bangin' on your F.M. Ace the Creator