[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, awk
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
"Oldie" is a song by Odd Future from the album The OF Tape, Vol. 2, released in 2012. The song was written by Domo Genesis, Earl Sweatshirt, Frank Ocean, Hodgy, Jasper Dolphin, Left Brain, Mike G, Tyler, The Creator. It was produced by Tyler, The Creator.
More from this album
The OF Tape, Vol. 2 Down With Boring
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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
(Tried to get that nigga, but, Golf Wang see, he did come back, though)
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' broop
It's KILLHodgy, nigga, stay the fuck off my stoop
And out my Kool-Aid, juice
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 (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
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
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
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
Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
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, Fatburger 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]
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
[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
Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
And grip tape and my shoes
Uhm, 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]
Mike G
— 44 credits as songwriter →
