Lyrics Tamale - Tyler, The Creator

Tamale

Smell my gooch, you could kiss my buns
And I don’t give a shit, ban my rectum
Somebody said bands make her dance
You think you’re getting cash, no bitch, you’re dumb
The only thing that you’re gonna get is this dick
Wait turn this up, bitch, this my jam (Where the drums at?)
Here, take a goddamn picture
And tell Spike Lee he’s a goddamn nigga
And while you’re at it, pass the lotion
And fapping and Xbox Live, that fun
Before I cum, I’m calling your sister
When she comes over, I take picture
Instantly put it on Instagram
And suplex her off a building if I get banned
Tamale!
Tamale!
Tamale!
Tamale!
Why y’all so salty?
Hot tamale is on
A can of beans, bitch, I’m on
Your boy is bad to the bone
Bring back the horns that was played in the beginning
And tell Tony Parker that I found his vision
And if he’s tripping off my sneak dissing
Then he has to deal with me and my minions
Tryna get a bimmer, E46
Have you heard «48», motherfucka I’m great
Golf Wang prints always cover the sleeves
From cuts for the Biebs, 'cause he’s puffin' the trees, please
Fuck I look like?
Got a new bike tire
Never pop like the puss on a butch dyke
Think I give a fuck, I do go raw
Then I bust in her jaw like (Fuck that disease!)
My urethra, hole that I pee from
Bigger than the obese neck on Aretha
Now turn that snare down
I’m back like I’m Rosa Parks fare on the same damn bus
Like, «You're going to jail now!»
Tamale!
Tamale!
Tamale!
Tamale!
Why y’all so salty?
Hot tamale is on
A can of beans, bitch, I’m on
Your boy is bad to the bone
How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?
If a woodchuck could ever give a fuck?
Bitch Suck Dick, motherfuck you and your opinions
(Can you kick it?) Yes, I can sir, where the lump is
Sicker than the last bar bold-er, I’m a CO
Colorado, fuck Michael, bitch, I’m badder than my BO
Find me and Lance tryna dance during chemo
Before they repossess our strong arm bands and tuxedos
Yeah, buddy, this is my jam, na na na na na na na!
Golf Wang, Golf Wang, no, fuck you, na na na na na na!
Why y’all so salty?
Hot tamale is on
Can’t agree?
Bitch, I’m on
Your boy is bad to the bone
How many fags can a lightbulb screw?
Well if it has a dick, maybe two or six
And tell the NRA I’m about to lose my shit
Shoot through Wayne LaPierre’s hair with a crucifix
How many ladies in the house?
How many ladies in the house without a rich nigga, huh?
A little Jergens in my palm for the jerkin'
Hope my mom don’t catch me, tryna set mood
Little Redtube, fuck lotion, I don’t need lube, dry fist suits me
Up and down, the friction makes a squeaky sound, the shit’s kind of disgusting
Fap time and before I flatline, Clancy chimes in my room and catch me
This shit’s so damn embarrassing like…
Oh, shit, aw fuck
What the fuck!
Aw, I’m sorry
Is that my shirt?
Yeah, sorry, I needed something
Clean that shit up, we’re going to the office!