Lyrics for Oldie (Megamix) by Odd Future :
[Intro: Taco]
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, awwwwk

[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, n*gga,” it looks like an accident
Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest
My b*tch white and black like she’s been mimicking a panda
It’s the dark skinned n*gga, kissing b*tches 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, n*gga, I was just Ableton
Not a f*cking Logic contradicting di*k head
Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
Semen-scented cheetah printed tee
In that ‘Preme five panel, I’ll repeat it for the season
Previous items in the present
With the normal-ass past like I cheated on my team
It’s me (Tried to get that n*gga, but, Golf Wang
See, he did come back though)

[Verse 2: Childish Gambino]
It’s hard to make Hov the footsteps you followin’
Especially when your n*ggas look like Carlton
The pretty girls usin’ skin so soft
Only be likin’ black dudes with their hats broke off
n*gga you act too soft
f*ck you! I’m from the projects
My mom was just workin’ to give me options
No live shows, cause I can’t find sponsors
For the only black kid at a Sufjan concert
“Yeah so, whatcha gonna do man?
You won’t speak to the hood, man”
If I was given one chance I think I could, man
These black kids want somethin’ new, I swear it
Somethin’ they wanna say but couldn’t cause they embarrassed
All I do is make the stuff I would’ve liked
Reference things I wanna watch, reference girls I wanna bite
Now I’m firefly like a burning kite
And you’s a fake f*ck like a fleshlight
Even dudes who like me straight lookin’ at me crazy
Like, how the hell he drop a EP and meet Jay-Z?
Girls used to tell me I ain’t cool enough
Now text me pics sayin’, “You could tear this up”
I don’t really like shades, big rims, or jewelry
But gettin’ time of day from a model is new to me
Bein’ me isn’t as hard as it used to be
Now everyone sing the chorus man, you do it so beautifully
Now when they see us on the streets
All they wanna do is take pics
And I’m like, okay (yeah, okay)
And when they hear us on the beat
All they wanna do is make hits
And I’m like, okay (yeah, okay)

[Verse 3: Hodgy Beats]
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 sh*t, robbing in the hood
Whips, drugs, jewels and your pet, I’m stealin’ your rims
Coke diamonds and your Vette, soldiers lace the f*ckin’ boot
And salute like the troop, when they shoot, you gon’ brrrooop
It’s KILLHodgy, n*gga, stay the f*ck off my stoop
And out my Kool-Aid, Juice

[Verse 4: Left Brain]
Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin
Jasper got the Henny, my n*gga, 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
I need a b*tch to go down like a Nitty beat
Yup, uh, and her ass fat
Don’t be surprised if I ask where the hash at
n*gga, I’m tryna smoke, b*tch, get higher
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 n*gga Ace will pull the black jack
The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
We like the mafia, b*tch, don’t get to slacking up
And if these haters acting up, throw ’em in the aqueduct
Free my n*gga Earl, yo, I don’t really ask for much
But two bad b*tches in front of me cunnilingus

[Verse 5: The Notorious B.I.G.]
Big Poppa, throwing n*ggas off of cliffs, smoking spliffs
Disappear with my b*tch in a Mitsubishi Eclipse
Read my lips, I kill you
Blood’ll spill too, did I say thank you
I grant you three wishes cause I be the genie
n*ggas is assed out like fat b*tches in bikinis
Read between the lines see what I see
I see the diary of a sick bast*rd
Junior Mafia blaster, Rugers on the hips
Bought coke to flip chips, bought slugs to fill clips
Flipping coke in corner store bodegas
In the back room playing Sega, Street Fighter II
I’m inviting you, bring your writing crew and they dopest rhymes
I get up in that ass every time
Lyrically I’m untouchable, uncrushable
Getting mad blunted in the 600
Benz, ask your friends who’s the illest
Licking shots, n*ggas screaming “Biggie Smalls tried to kill us”

I was more shocked than anything
You know what I’m sayin’?
But I wasn’t more shocked of him dying
I was more shocked of him Pac is a strong dude, yo
I know dude, you know what I’m sayin’? Real strong
So when they was like he got shot, I was just more like, “Again?” you know what I’m sayin’?
He always getting shot, or shot at
He going to pull through this one again

[Verse 6: Big L]
Nobody can take nothin’ from Big L but a loss, chief
The last punk who fronted got a mouth full of false teeth
I’m known to gas a hottie and blast a shotty
Got more cash than Gotti
You don’t know, you better ask somebody
Big L is a crazy brother, and I’m a lady lover
A smooth kid that’ll run up in your baby mother
I push a slick Benz, I’m known to hit skins
And get ends and commit sins with sick friends
‘Cause I’m a money getter, also a honey hitter
You think you nice as me? Haha, you’s a funny n*gga!
I flows, so one of my shows wouldn’t be clever to miss
I’m leavin’ competitors p*ssed
To tell you the truth, it gets no better than this
I’m catchin’ wreck to the break of dawn
In this song, yo, it’s a must that I put it on


[Verse 7: Nas]
Yo, release what’s in me
Besides the Henny, it’s eyes that’s seen plenty
Fiends get skinny as if Queens was a Craig Jenny
Instead of diet plans it’s crack 200 grams
I pump a G-pack, peeping for where the D’s at
It’s slow, lookin’ for Rambo, the cop who got grazed
Back in the days, chasin’ n*ggas through my project maze
That cop he got a death wish
He run behind n*ggas until you breathless
Everyday he makin’ ten arrests, sh*t!
My n*gga check this, I know the b*tch he rest with
I even blessed it, forty-dash-ten inspect it
(Already checked it Dunn, near his ankle you could see his gun)
Peep, he parked his Jeep in the back of the slum
To check Tanisha, fat ass real fly, with the blonde caesar
Vittadini summer gear, she push the two-seater
I heard she brag about the way he eat her
A Irish man short slim with a tan, they say he laced her cheeba
She due, be lookin’ weaker, now her teeth are foul
Speakin’ loud, peep her style, in and out of every reefer cloud
Fat ass dissolvin’, like cotton candy in a mouth that’s starvin’
Rock the same g….

[Verse 8: Mike G]
What the f*ck 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 b*tches 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, n*gga, I’m a problem
From Briggs, I got bars and plans to
Pimp these Polish b*tches 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

[Verse 9: Domo Genesis]
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 sh*t is not as hot as anything I f*ckin’ drop
b*tch, I’m in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay c*ck
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 sh*t in your wish list
Mad sick sh*t, mad di*k for your b*tches
On some slick sh*t, your mistress on my hit list
And I’m lifted ’til I’m stiff outta this b*tch
Odd in your motherf*ckin’ area
Blood clots give me five feet ‘fore I bury ya
Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carrey up
And f*ck your team, ho, n*gga, wassup?
Wolf Gang so you know we not giving no f*cks
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

[Verse 10: Pink Guy]
。今日ーメ ’作り。楽 。ゃ ょ。
Yo, I still masturbate while eating top ramen
At a faster rate in the bigger quantities
It counts as rape when I’m slurping at this unbelievable pace
I turn the temperature up all the way to sweat up on my face
If you give no effort, if you got no money
Then I got a cheap method
Crack it open throw it in a pan and let it cook b*tch
Now that’s a real education f*ck books
If you wanna make it in college acknowledge
All the flavors that be dropping
Mad knowledge on these pus*y ass canned goods
We got chicken and beef to boost the manhood
Anybody want a piece of me will have to get this ramen first
Start with the shrimp and then the fire
If you’re fully blazed then this sh*t’ll get you higher
Thirty-five cents a pack, three for a dollar
Unbelievable pricing that’s the future of a blue collar worker
And I’m talkin’ bout ramen
This sh*t’ll fill you up when you’re feeling like an African
Come back when you’re in the state that I’m in
And say hi to my homeboy top ramen

Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
Right, right

[Verse 11: Frank Ocean]
Rent a super car 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 n*gga, what can I say?
I’m hi and I’m bi, wait, I mean I’m straight
I’mma 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 sh*t sound real
Used to work the grill, Fatburger and fries
Then I made a mil’ and them psychics was liars
Now, how many f*cking 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]
Goddammit, this rapping is stupid and it’s hard
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here it go

[Verse 12: 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
Pot head, half-baked, lookin’ like Chappelle
Rollin’ up a blunt with that fire from hell
Still ignorant, still hit a b*tch
Wolf Gang, n*gga, so I still don’t give a sh*t
Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap
Bong rips as I feel on that little b*tch cat

Hah, n*gga came through with a 9-bar real quick
Just for the b*tches, little bit of money in my pocket
f*ck it, Wolf Gang (Yeah, f*ck that)

[Verse 13: Kool Keith]
One two, Tashan Dorrsett (Ta-shan… Dorr-sett)
See I’m Tashan Dorrsett, you guys wear fake crocs
Wearin thongs like Betty, ain’t no real bands in the crowd
But you do sleep in the teddy
Not needle pickin, your flow need to thicken
Get better residential, otherwise
You’ll be losin more games against me, you hear me?
You foolin like a rookie, you’re just a Marbury
New York Knick’n, with the little bit of light you gettin
Got you sniffin, +Uptown Saturday Night+
Got a little Saturday hype
You sound like Loudon Wright
A fat girl who can’t lose weight on the mic
Flow brick thick, flow smooth
Flow smooth…
Flow so brick thick, flow smooth
Flow smooth…
Flow so brick, thick flow, smooth
Flow smooth…
Flow so brick, the flow is sick, flow smooth
Flow smooth…
You could be imprisoned for 75 years you’d never have much lyrics
I got 60,000 pads full ready to explode
Spit ’em out like machine guns
Watch the 12 star general reload
Open up the top of the tank, you see the strips
Even Hitler knew about my rank
Since the Berlin Wall, the rise and fall
Communists trained to throw
… vocals around like a ventriloquist
I sprinkle with better p*ss
I can use the more deeper chemicals, instead of this
They leave with enemas~!
Face the boxes, the laboratory with 10 million bottles of vinegar
Alcohol yes, I sprell{?}, you can read in braille
Minefield stay active to blow your legs off when you come and see me
Don’t step on the seashell, officials, yeah
Lock out your passport (lock it out)
Flow brick thick, flow smooth
Flow smooth…

[Verse 14: Earl Sweatshirt]
Look, for contrast, here’s a pair of lips
Swallowin’ sarapin and settin’ fire to sheriff’s whips
(Whoops, whoops!) f*ckin’ All-American terrorist
Crushin’ rapper larynx to feed ’em a f*ckin’ 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 p*ss
Flow remind these n*ggas where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Feral, f*ckin’ ill-apparel-wearin’ pack of parasites
Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di, back in here to f*ck 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 f*ckin’ awesome anonymous
Call him bloated ’til he show ’em that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, Four Loko and 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 sh*ttin’ 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 sh*t 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 motherf*ckers sore in torso and face
Get at me, we savages, half a pack of Apache
Indian pack of n*ggas who don’t give a f*ck 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 motherf*ckin’ gladiator manner of rappin’
As an addict I let Percocet and Xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is Maxi, please

[Verse 15: Tyler the Creator]
OF, sh*t, that’s all I got
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
From that father figure Clancy to that skatey n*gga Nak
Shreddin’ down ‘Fax, Wolf Gang run the f*ckin’ block
Storefront, knee tat
Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
And grip tape… and my shoes
Um, 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 f*cking beer, I’m tipsy off this soda pop
This is for the n*ggas in the suburbs
And the white kids with n*gga friends who say the n-word
And the ones that got called weird, fag, b*tch, nerd
‘Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats and Steven Spielberg
They say we ain’t actin’ right
Always try to turn our f*ckin’ color into black and white
But they’ll never change ’em, never understand ’em
Radical’s my anthem, turn my f*cking amps up
So instead of critiquing and b*tchin’, bein’ mad as f*ck
Just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as f*ck, b*tches

OFM, banging on your FM
Gnaw, 2011, yeah
Finny Music
Golf Wang