Couch

[Verse 1: Earl Sweatshirt]

Uh, was always smart-mouthed and quick-witted

But somethin' was always missin' like six digits

Lucky seven, probably poppa

Little nigga so they picked on him, hassled him

Things changed when I hassled back, so

David hit the pavement with this grapple rap

Snapple fact: you rather wack

While I am poppin' like a snappin' crack

So high, you could see like Tallahass', or opposite of cataracts

Matter fact, I am Farmer John milkin' cattle tracks

Action-packed, nipple squeezin', boy colder than sniffle season

Simple genius, go hard and spit bits of semen

So, when the street is split, don't act surprised, agree with it

The gang of wolves that creeps in crypts

As deep as Dawson's Creek and shit

I pray they got gills, either that or grab some floaties

I know I got skills, why you think I'm posted, boastin'?

Braggin', tell these faggots to stop naggin'

'Cause them Wolf Gang niggas threw 'em off the bandwagon, like

[Verse 2: Tyler, The Creator]

Uh, was always fucked up as shit wit' it

But I didn't cross the line until the bridge hit it, troll

I got you niggas nervous like virgins flirtin' with Uncle Mervin

Fuckin' y'all with no lubricant, go grab the detergent

I preach to demons at your church, now I'm the newest sermon

Wearin' nothin' but they fuckin' blast with the matchin' turban

I drive through white suburbans in the black Suburban, swervin'

Hittin' curbs and blastin' Erick Sermon, drunk off English bourbon

I'm stealin' purses, rapin' nurses, I'm a crooked surgeon

And treat the beat like sanitized Nazi puss, I'm a German

I'm squirtin' while I'm masturbatin' and regurgitatin'

From eatin' Miley Cyrus salad pussy platter they were servin'

My only purpose is to jerk it 'cause it has a curve

So, bitches hate to do me like ex-convict community service

This my Zombie Circus, you better get a fuckin' ticket

Odd Future Wolf Gang, like they're filmin' Twilight in this bitch

[Verse 3: Earl Sweatshirt]

I'm back on my sixty-six-six shit

Flowin' like the blood out the competition's slit wrists

She lick it up, Dracula, then spit it back, back at ya

She mad as fuck, stuck in the back of a black Acura

Fed her acid, now the duct tape quacks back at her

Hello Heather, yellow feathers, now you ain't laughin', huh?

[Verse 4: Tyler, The Creator]

Bitch, you're barely breathin'

Leavin' on the back of the boat where I fill you up with semen

From the Wolf Gang teamin'

Flowin' like the creampie inside of your daughter

Oughta eat the bitch with salt and wash it down with a gallon of water

I grab the saw and sawed her arm off and auctioned it

And dip her teeth in gold molds and flossed the shit

Fuckin' awesome, spittin' box of trees

Got you niggas shakin' like it's Parkinsons

From the clitoris of Kelly Clarkson's dick

Ironin' you niggas, now it's time to starch the shit

Drown your bitch in a tub of cum and throw a shark in it

Find a random abandoned garage, and go and park in it

Find Earl layin' on the burgundy carpet

Pull my knife out, sharpen it

(Stab him), put a arch in it

Pour unleaded gas on him, get the Zippo and spark the shit

Hop back in the van and then depart the bitch

Killed him on his own track, the faggot shouldn't have started it