Couch lyrics

[Verse 1: Earl Sweatshirt]
Uh, was always smart-mouthed and quick-witted
But somethin' was always missin' like six digits
Lucky seven, probably poppa
Little n*gga so they picked on him, hassled him
Things changed when I hassled back, so
David hit the pavement with this grapple rap
Snapple fact: you rather wack
While I am poppin' like a snappin' crack
So high, you could see like Tallahass', or opposite of cataracts
Matter fact, I am Farmer John milkin' cattle tracks
Action-packed, nipple squeezin', boy colder than sniffle season
Simple genius, go hard and spit bits of semen
So, when the street is split, don't act surprised, agree with it
The gang of wolves that creeps in crypts
As deep as Dawson's Creek and sh*t
I pray they got gills, either that or grab some floaties
I know I got skills, why you think I'm posted, boastin'?
Braggin', tell these faggots to stop naggin'
'Cause them Wolf Gang n*ggas threw 'em off the bandwagon, like

[Verse 2: Tyler, The Creator]
Uh, was always f*cked up as sh*t wit' it
But I didn't cross the line until the bridge hit it, troll
I got you n*ggas nervous like virgins flirtin' with Uncle Mervin
f*ckin' y'all with no lubricant, go grab the detergent
I preach to demons at your church, now I'm the newest sermon
Wearin' nothin' but they f*ckin' blast with the matchin' turban
I drive through white suburbans in the black Suburban, swervin'
Hittin' curbs and blastin' Erick Sermon, drunk off English bourbon
I'm stealin' purses, rapin' nurses, I'm a crooked surgeon
And treat the beat like sanitized Nazi puss, I'm a German
I'm squirtin' while I'm masturbatin' and regurgitatin'
From eatin' Miley Cyrus salad pus*y platter they were servin'
My only purpose is to j*rk it 'cause it has a curve
So, b*tches hate to do me like ex-convict community service
This my Zombie Circus, you better get a f*ckin' ticket
Odd Future Wolf Gang, like they're filmin' Twilight in this b*tch
[Verse 3: Earl Sweatshirt]
I'm back on my sixty-six-six sh*t
Flowin' like the blood out the competition's slit wrists
She lick it up, Dracula, then spit it back, back at ya
She mad as f*ck, stuck in the back of a black Acura
Fed her acid, now the duct tape quacks back at her
Hello Heather, yellow feathers, now you ain't laughin', huh?

[Verse 4: Tyler, The Creator]
b*tch, you're barely breathin'
Leavin' on the back of the boat where I fill you up with semen
From the Wolf Gang teamin'
Flowin' like the creampie inside of your daughter
Oughta eat the b*tch with salt and wash it down with a gallon of water
I grab the saw and sawed her arm off and auctioned it
And dip her teeth in gold molds and flossed the sh*t
f*ckin' awesome, spittin' box of trees
Got you n*ggas shakin' like it's Parkinsons
From the clitoris of Kelly Clarkson's di*k
Ironin' you n*ggas, now it's time to starch the sh*t
Drown your b*tch in a tub of c*m and throw a shark in it
Find a random abandoned garage, and go and park in it
Find Earl layin' on the burgundy carpet
Pull my knife out, sharpen it
(Stab him), put a arch in it
Pour unleaded gas on him, get the Zippo and spark the sh*t
Hop back in the van and then depart the b*tch
Killed him on his own track, the faggot shouldn't have started it