Cult sh*t lyrics

[Intro]
I'm recordin' that sh*t on the f*ckin' little mic
By the little camera thing on the f*ckin' Mac book
So this sh*t is choppy and bad quality, but f*ck it
Wolf Gang, Ace Creator

[Verse 1]
Somebody tell Justin Beiber that I'm f*ckin' coming
Ain't no point in runnin', I'm a n*gga, just a little quicker
So I catch him stretchin', have him guessin' where his cracker throat
Chop his balls off and use his skin to make a baby coat
Ain't he dope? No, he the same as sh*t that Tyler wrote
This is Ace, Wolf is in the back with Travis snortin' coke
Riley's here, Connie's dead, pickin' pus*y p*sses pike
She won't leave, di*k as big as Kelly Price's appetite
Apprehend a couple men, triple six is f*ckin' sin
Make Queen Latifah and Sydney go slap a couple dykes
Wrap around 'til they hit the ground and they hear a sound
That doesn't make sense like n*gga kids wearing cap and gowns
This my album, and when your parents try to come around
Do the f*ckin' exact opposite of turnin' it down
And when they try to get parental and start talkin' loud
Tell them that you're from the Wolf Gang and you're f*ckin' proud
Then start barkin' loud 'til the neighbors wanna calm you down
But call the pigs, who'll probably come in bout a half an hour
Tell them that your sorry, you're a cow, took a f*ckin' shower
But make it in time for sh*tty re-runs of Rocket Power
This is the sh*t that is makin' me cynical
The clinical attempts at schizophrenia's critical
f*ckin' voices follow me, emulatin' like twitter roll
O.F. is a cult, assume that I'm the f*cking general
So when I mention suicide, I'm being Mr. Literal
The coke inside nine capsules, f*ck it let's split a roll
Life is like a phone booth, these pigeons is the f*ckin' toll
1-800-f*ck-this-sh*t
Seven years old in my heart, so I'm stayin' gold
But when I f*ckin' go, Lucifer will probably have my soul
It's hot down there, f*ck that, b*tch I'm hot as coals
Out the microwave, mixed with a bowl of yellow raviol
And a firetruck and Arizona durin' summertime
In a turtle neck, thermal jeans, spit purple wine
Wolf Gang pete and gon' live, running outta time
The f*ck I give is the same as the next line
[Outro]
(f*ck everything) That's what my conscience said
Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
So the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement
Actions speak louder than words, let me try this sh*t