Yonkers Lyrics – Tyler, the Creator
Singer: Tyler, the Creator
Title: Yonkers
I’m a f#cking walking paradox, no I’m not
Threesomes with a f#cking triceratops, Reptar
Rapping as I’m mocking deaf rock stars
Wearing synthetic wigs made of Anwar’s dreadlocks
Bedrock, harder than a motherf#cking Flintstone
Making crack rocks out of p#ss# n#gg# fishbones
This n#gg# Jasper trying to get grown
About 5’7″ of his b#tches in my bedroom
Swallow the cinnamon, I’m a scribble this sin and sh#t
While Syd is telling me that she’s been getting intimate with men
(Syd, shut the f*ck up) Here’s the number to my therapist
(Shit) Tell him all your problems, he’s f#cking awesome with listening
Jesus called, he said he’s sick of the disses
I told him to quit b#tching and this isn’t a f#cking hotline
For a f#cking shrink, sheesh I already got mine
And he’s not f#cking working, I think I’m wasting my damn time
I’m clocking three past six and going postal
This the revenge of the dicks, that’s nine cocks that c#ck nines
This ain’t no V Tech sh#t or Columbine
But after bowling, I went home for some damn Adventure Time
(What’d you do?) I slipped myself some pink Xannies
And danced around the house in all-over print panties
My mom’s gone, that f#cking broad will never understand me
I’m not gay, I just wanna boogie to some Marvin
(What you think of Hayley Williams?) F*ck her, Wolf Haley robbing them
I’ll crash that f#cking airplane that that faggot n#gg# B.o.B is in
And stab Bruno Mars in his g#dd#mn esophagus
And won’t stop until the cops come in
I’m an over achiever, so how about I start a team of leaders
And pick up Stevie Wonder to be the wide receiver
Green paper, gold teeth and pregnant golden retrievers
Is all I want, f*ck money, diamonds and b#tches, don’t need them
But where the fat ones at? I got something to feed them
It’s some cooking books, the black kids never wanted to read them
Snap back, green ch-ch-chia f#cking leaves
It’s been a couple months, and Tina still ain’t perm her f#cking weave, damn
They say success is the best revenge
So I beat DeShay up with the stack of magazines I’m in
Oh, not again! Another critic writing report
I’m stabbing any blogging faggot hipster with a Pitchfork
Still suicidal I am
I’m Wolf, Tyler put this f#cking knife in my hand
I’m Wolf, Ace gon’ put that f#cking hole in my head
And I’m Wolf, that was me who shoved a c#ck in your b#tch
(What the f*ck, man?) F*ck the fame and all the hype, G
I just want to know if my father would ever like me
But I don’t give a f*ck, so he’s probably just like me
A motherf#ckin’, Goblin
(F*ck everything, man) That’s what my conscience said
Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
Now the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement
Actions speak louder than words, let me try this sh#t, dead
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Lyrics Tyler, the Creator – Yonkers
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