Raw Freestyle lyrics

by

Tyler, The Creator


[Intro]
Yeah, yeah
Uh, they, f*ck
Uh, yeah

[Verse]
They ask me if I'm Tyler, the nasty
n*gga that used to be in seventh grade, watching Degrassi'
But y'all n*ggas and your whips with your rims
And your hat with the brims, rolling right past me
But I could give a f*ck less about what you doing
Who you screwing, who you booing
I got these b*tches brewing in my gold pots
You could see the Rolex, the gold watch
See them gold (?), b*tch, you won't stop
I'm in that Bape sh*t, all that Bathing Ape sh*t
That sh*t that make you my Superman hoodie is cape sh*t
You on that fake sh*t, that True Religion, Abercrombie
'postale, n*gga, my T-shirt is pastel
My n*gga, I pass well
Well past, and I pass that f*cking class well
And when your b*tch see me, she be like
"Oh my gosh, you're (?), but man, you're so swell"
Like I'm so swole, this Bape sh*t is so old
Older than the ice cream shoes I have that's growing mold
And they say "Ace, you're a genius"
I said "I play piano, make songs, a big p*nis"
Cause when I have 2, listening to Neptunes sh*t
I'm never Mars or Venus, you seen this
My 3-D glasses still the cleanest
Enis, anus, n*gga, you could paint this
Here's a mothaf*ckin' brush, all you n*ggas running
But I'm still not in a rush and I'm winning
No braces on but I'm grinning, don't believe in God but I'm sinning
(?), He-Man and She-Man and He-Man
And he's dead, y'all want the rims
But I'm still chilling in the mothaf*ckin' mini-van like
What it do, what it do
f*ck you and your crew, OF to the death, nah
Y'all know I do bail
Y'all rep y'all set until the death, my n*gga, this OF until, until
And n*gga thats real
And n*gga I'm raw, I'm bigger than my boss
Leaving cold, 86 degrees heat on me
With your b*tch screaming out my name, gagging on her knees
And n*gga, I'm reed, eating motherf*ckin' ice cream Reese's Pieces
n*gga, I'm the (?), I'm the sh*t
You could call me Ace, The Creator, a.k.a. feces
I'm eating like a feces
[Outro]
Hahahaha...
What the f*ck is my problem!? f*ck!
Ayo, ay, I'mma let this one ride out though
I'mma-I'mma let the keys f*ck with the drums
A.C.E., O-F-M, bangin' on your FM, yes
It was all a dream, now I got my own magazine, word up
I'm out, peace
Tch
b*tch!
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