Yonkers

Yonkers
Wolf Haley, Golf Wang
I'm a fuckin' walkin' paradox ? no, I'm not
Threesomes with a fuckin' triceratops, Reptar
Rappin' as I'm mockin' deaf rock stars
Wearin' synthetic wigs made of Anwar's dreadlocks
Bedrock, harder than a motherfuckin' Flintstone
Making crack rocks outta pu*** ni*** fishbones
This ni*** Jasper tryin' to get grown
About 5'7" of his bitches in my bedroom
Swallow the cinnamon
I'ma scribble this sin and shit, while Syd is tellin' me that she's been gettin' intimate with men (Syd, shut the f*** up!)
Here's the number to my therapist (Shit!)
You tell him all your problems, he's fuckin' awesome with listenin'

Jesus called, he said he's sick of the disses
I told him to quit bitchin', this isn't a fuckin' hotline
For a fuckin' shrink, sheesh, I already got mine
And he's not fuckin' workin', I think I'm wastin' my damn time
I'm clockin' three past six and goin' postal
This the revenge of the dicks; that's nine cocks that cock 9's
This ain't no V Tech shit or Columbine
But after bowling, I went home for some damn Adventure Time
(What'd you do?) I slipped myself some pink Xannies
And danced around the house in all-over print panties
My mom's gone, that fuckin' broad will never understand me
I'm not gay, I just wanna boogie to some Marvin
(What you think of Hayley Williams?)
F*** her, Wolf Haley robbin' 'em
I'll crash that fuckin' airplane that that faggot ni*** B.o.B is in
And stab Bruno Mars in his goddamn esophagus
And won't stop until the cops come in
I'm an overachiever, so how about I start a team of leaders
And pick up Stevie Wonder to be the wide receiver?
Green paper, gold teeth, and pregnant golden retrievers
All I want; f*** money, diamonds and bitches! Don't need 'em
But where the fat ones at? I got somethin' to feed 'em
It's some cooking books, the black kids never wanted to read 'em
Snap back, green ch-ch-chia fuckin' leaves
It's been a couple months
And Tina still ain't perm her fuckin' weave, damn

[Verse 3]
They say success is the best revenge
So I beat DeShay up with the stack of magazines I'm in
Oh, not again! Another critic writing report
I'm stabbin' any bloggin' faggot hipster with a Pitchfork
Still suicidal I am
I'm Wolf, Tyler put this fuckin' knife in my hand
I'm Wolf, Ace gon' put that fuckin' hole in my head
And I'm Wolf, that was me who shoved a cock in your bitch
(What the f***, man?) F*** the fame and all the hype, G
I just wanna know if my father would ever like me
But I don't give a f***, so he's probably just like me
A motherfuckin' Goblin
(Fuck everything, man!) ? that's what my conscience said
Then it bunny-hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
Now the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement
Actions speak louder than words, let me try this shit, dead
En 'Yonkers' de Tyler, The Creator, el ritmo vibrante y las letras desafiantes te sumergen en un mundo de contradicciones y provocaciones. El artista fluye entre imágenes surrealistas, desde tríos con dinosaurios hasta bromas con estrellas de rock sordas...