Tyler, The Creator – Rusty lyrics

[Verse 1: Domo Genesis]
Watch me get this money nigga, tired of being hungry nigga
Nothing funny, sass me while I’m thrashing, I’mma punch a nigga
Never made of plastic, I’m a savage, you look lunch my nigga
Passing all you hating fucking fags we don’t discuss, my nigga
We ain’t on no jolly shit, and we don’t pop no mollies, bitch
I’m honkin’, spitting got some niggas out here poppin’ nollie switch
Buncha novices, Odd Future the squad, it's thick.
Them young niggas is back and brash, attacking with no common sense
We the last of a dying breed, and we don’t give a fuck
So we can not supply your needs
You stupid niggas who had said our hype is dying, please
My pocket’s solid, making profit off the highest tees, bitch
Bitch, [?] I get on the verse, cursin’
Nigga Doms so cool, I refer him in third person.
Watch me get this money, I’m up when the birds chirping
Make actions, fuck rehearsing

[Hook: Domo Genesis x2]
Nigga, summer, fall, winter-time, 24/365
You niggas gon’ give me mine, I don’t have plenty time
Flying out at any time. Getting money, any grind
You niggas gon’ give me mine. You niggas gon’ give me mine

[Verse 2: Tyler, the Creator]
In a world where kids my age are popping mollies, with leather
Sitting on Tumblr, never outside there enjoying the weather
Can name a sweater, but not a talent
Or don’t know if whether or not they got one
Tried to change their life for the better
I was a drama club kid. I run with the fun dip. My nuts itched
I was defiant, always said, “fuck shit”
Hated the popular ones, now I’m the popular one
Also hated homes too, til I start coppin’ me some
See I don’t beez in the trap, nigga, I beez in the b’s
And I be gassin’ in my buzz like some bees in a shell
Fucking sick and getting bigger like I sneezed on Adele
And bitches getting touchy-feely like they reading some braille
I bust quick like gun-holders with short tempers, and well
I tried to tell the kids, like fuck it, start being yourself
These fucking rappers got stylist, it’s cause they can’t think for themselves
See, they don’t have an identity, so they needed some help, but
Really, boy? Posers looking silly boy
I’m in that past season ‘Preme shit, older than Tity Boi
Not a diss, but same with ice cream, my shit is [Diddy Riese]
Na’kel Smith. Trans-World page 64
Poppin’ like oil, ollies, and fire flames
I’m harder than dj Khaled playing the fucking quiet game
The fuck am I saying? Tyler’s not even a violent name
I’m ’bout as threatening as stained windbreakers in hurricanes
But he rapes women, and spit wrong, like he hate dentists
God damn menace, 666 and he’s not finished
And my shit’s missing, he hates women, but loves kittens
See y’all niggas trippin’ man
Look at that article that says my subject matter is wrong
Saying I hate gays even though Frank is on 10 of my songs
Look at that Mom who thinks I’m evil, hold that grudge against me
Though I’m the reason that her motherfucking son got to eat
Look at the kid who had the 9 and tried to blow out his mind
But talk is money, I said, “Hi, ” I guess I bought him some time
Look at the ones in the crowd. That shit is barnacles, huh?
They thought I wasn’t fair until I threw a carnival, huh?
But then again, I’m an athiest, that just worships Satan,
And it’s probably why I’m not getting no fucking album placements
And mtv could suck my dick, and I ain’t fuckin’ playing
Bruh, they never played it, I just won shit for their fucking ratings
“Analog” fans are getting sick of the rape
All the “Tron Cat” fans are getting sick of the lakes
But what about me, bitch? I’m getting sick of complaints
But I don’t hate it when I’m taking daily trips to the bank
Over and over, shit, who gives a fuck what I think?
My fans don’t think turning on me, shit, they’re almost extinct
Fuck buying studio time. I’mma go purchase a shrink
Record the session and send all you motherfuckers a link, bitch

[Hook: Domo Genesis]
Nigga, summer, fall, winter-time. 24/365.
You niggas gon’ give me mine, I don’t have plenty time.
Flying out at any time. Getting money, any grind.
You niggas gon’ give me mine. You niggas gon’ give me mine.

[Verse 3: Earl Sweatshirt]
This shit’s just like the nights I look forward to not remembering.
So much for being sober, I hope that you can forgive me
But Momma, I’m close to the edge as possible (Why don’t you jump you fucking pussy?)
All I’m seeing is the drop in my occular, jumping like they told me
That the 40′ s half off, like you know that cliff.
Don’t need a therapist to tell him he could float that shit (fucking faggot).
And compare to fucking pair ‘em with all the program kits
So maybe a pair of pale bitches for the gonads lick (I’ll show you).
Malt liquor filling me up, and all us not giving no fucks and
All of them sensitive chumps in awe whenn that pistol erupts (Pistol, I got one!).
Dirty been spittin’ the sumpy raw till his wrists in the cuffs
(Oh, shut the fuck up!).
(Gunshot)

[Outro: Sam]
Samuel’s here!
Where’s Wolf?
Fucking faggot.
Salem was mine, bitch!
Was that good enough, you fucking pussy?