Fucking Lame

[Verse 1: Tyler, The Creator]
I'm rolling through Ladera in a Bimmer looking cleaner
Drinking on a blueberry Slurpee, eating that fajita
My passenger seat is occupied by señorita
And mother keeps on bugging me about wanting to meet her
I don't really need her, I'm just tryna treat her real nice
And later on, up in the night, I could go eat her
And make a lie about the gonorrhea
So she don't feel guilty about me wanting to leave her
That "FUCK" on my T-shirt print is cheetah
And I got that '87 bunny flow, like an Easter
Basket, you faggots is plastic, like nerds with old glasses
But I'm still liable to get my ass kicked
Kinda sorta active, a Baby Milo addict in the attic
Where you losers can't get me
Nikon and the Canon, they were never the same
And please do not take a picture, I can't be seen with you lames

[Hook: Tyler, The Creator]
Man, y'all some muthafuckin' lames
Man, y'all some muthafuckin' lames
Don't lie to yourself, y'all some lames
Man, y'all some l—fuckin' lames
The Canon don't flash, y'all some lames
I cannot be seen with you lames
You mothafuckas is—lames

[Break: Tyler, The Creator]
Ahem
Tyler, The Creator
Ugh

[Verse 2: Tyler, The Creator]
Can't stop, fall, flashing, like a cop car
Me and—("Yay"), no Rockwell, I'm a rock star
Fuck y'all, the O.F. is banging on 'em
Custom crewnecks rolling 'round with Ronald Regan on 'em ("Yay")
Y'all drug dealers, I Carl Sagan on 'em
Chop and screw Nas tracks, I got piano's waiting on 'em
My shirt is yellow, but the grill is gold
I couldn't take the Rit'lin 'cause my therapist said the pill is old
I can't stay, but I guess I lost control
I don't have sense, sorry, I sold my soul
For some gold Bapes; low-price, stale rate
Authentic, never fake, check the poll, our statistics
Stay with authentics, check my steelo
Cause my mob's goodie like we Cee-Lo, and he know
I am, yes, and even she know
Every instrument is a gram, kilo ("Yay")

[Outro: Tyler, The Creator]
O.F.M.
Bangin' on your F.M.
Ace, The Creator