Songwriter: Tyler, The Creator
[Verse 1]
Yeah, yeah
Uh, they, fuck
Uh, yeah
They ask me if I'm Tyler, the nasty
Nigga that used to be in seventh grade watching Degrassi
But yall niggas and your whips with your rims and your hat with the brims rolling right past me
But I could give a fuck less about what you doing
Who you screwing, who you booing
I got these bitches brewing in my gold pots
You could see the Rolex, the gold watch
See them gold (?) but you won't stop
I'm in that bape shit, or that bathing ape shit
That shit that make you my Superman hoodie is cape shit
You on that fake shit, that true religion, abercrombie, 'postale, nigga my t-shirt is pastel
My nigga I pass well
Well passed, and I pass that fucking class well
And when your bitch see me, she be like "Oh my gosh, your so (?), man you're so swell"
Like I'm so swole, this bape shit is so old, older than the ice cream shoes I have that's growing mold
And they say "Ace, you're genius" I say "I play piano, make songs, a big penis"
Cause when I have 2, listen to Neptune shit, I'm never Mars or Venus, you seen this
My 3D glasses still the cleanest, enis, anus, nigga you could paint this is a mutha fucking bush
All you niggas running but I'm still not in a rush and I'm winning
No races, but I'm grinning
Don't believe in God, but I'm sinning
He-man and she-man and he-man confused than
Yall want the rims, but I'm still chilling in the mutha fucking mini-van like
What it do, what it do, fuck you, and your crew, OF to the death, nah
Yall know I do bail, yall rep yall set until the death nigga this OF until, until
And nigga thats real, and nigga I'm raw, I'm bigger than my boss the cold 86 degrees heat on need with your bitch screaming out my name gagging on her knees
And nigga I'm reed, eating mutha fucking ice cream reese's pieces
Nigga I'm the (?) I'm the shit, You could call me Ace, The Creator A.K.A. feces
I'm eating like a feces
[Interlude]
What the fuck is my problem!
I'm a let this one ride out tho
I'm a let the keys fuck with the drums
A.C.E, OFM, Bangin' on your FM, yes
It was all a dream, now I got my own magazine, word up
I'm out, peace
Yeah, yeah
Uh, they, fuck
Uh, yeah
They ask me if I'm Tyler, the nasty
Nigga that used to be in seventh grade watching Degrassi
But yall niggas and your whips with your rims and your hat with the brims rolling right past me
But I could give a fuck less about what you doing
Who you screwing, who you booing
I got these bitches brewing in my gold pots
You could see the Rolex, the gold watch
See them gold (?) but you won't stop
I'm in that bape shit, or that bathing ape shit
That shit that make you my Superman hoodie is cape shit
You on that fake shit, that true religion, abercrombie, 'postale, nigga my t-shirt is pastel
My nigga I pass well
Well passed, and I pass that fucking class well
And when your bitch see me, she be like "Oh my gosh, your so (?), man you're so swell"
Like I'm so swole, this bape shit is so old, older than the ice cream shoes I have that's growing mold
And they say "Ace, you're genius" I say "I play piano, make songs, a big penis"
Cause when I have 2, listen to Neptune shit, I'm never Mars or Venus, you seen this
My 3D glasses still the cleanest, enis, anus, nigga you could paint this is a mutha fucking bush
All you niggas running but I'm still not in a rush and I'm winning
No races, but I'm grinning
Don't believe in God, but I'm sinning
He-man and she-man and he-man confused than
Yall want the rims, but I'm still chilling in the mutha fucking mini-van like
What it do, what it do, fuck you, and your crew, OF to the death, nah
Yall know I do bail, yall rep yall set until the death nigga this OF until, until
And nigga thats real, and nigga I'm raw, I'm bigger than my boss the cold 86 degrees heat on need with your bitch screaming out my name gagging on her knees
And nigga I'm reed, eating mutha fucking ice cream reese's pieces
Nigga I'm the (?) I'm the shit, You could call me Ace, The Creator A.K.A. feces
I'm eating like a feces
[Interlude]
What the fuck is my problem!
I'm a let this one ride out tho
I'm a let the keys fuck with the drums
A.C.E, OFM, Bangin' on your FM, yes
It was all a dream, now I got my own magazine, word up
I'm out, peace
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