Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Tamale, artist - Tyler, The Creator.
Date of issue: 31.03.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
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! |