Earl Sweatshirt, Wiki - AM // Radio lyrics
[Earl Sweatshirt, Wiki - AM // Radio lyrics]
Nineteen, still gettin' kicked out the crib
Ripped off my bib, spit out my food
Hiccup and piss urine burning
I could smell the liquor in this
Cats always tryna pick up the
Fist "Duff this dude out"
Rap astute just to get me a grip
Now, it's like bruised face, loose walk
Too sauced distraught thoughts on my corpse
On the asphalt back when I’d slack off
Rock my slacks of my ass half-off
Every time I rap, I blast off
Back when I catch court I always had sports
Dipping on cops in my track shorts
So tell my mom, I had to make it right
I lie every night about the limelight
So I could lie at night
And tell my pops, I gotta take advice
Keep my head screwed on tight
Abuse these mics
See me, I’m the contusion type
A cat to smack the mic against my
Fuckin' head when I'm losing hype
RATKING, never losing hype, no
Smack king, and I do it right, no
RATKING, yeah, I do it nice, whoa
Bitch, I skated before I rapped
If you take me before your captain
Bet 20 hots on your daddy
That someone could 'Nolia Clap him
Probably cold and passive
'Cause Pops was the one that got to me
Feeling down like he passed it
And when I'm cornered, it's action
I was kinda out the game
Mama put the quarter right back in the slot
In '09
We took the 7 to the Dussy 17 to the block
Bitch, if your nigga had Supreme
We was the reason he copped it and nowadays
I'm on the hunt for mirrors to box with
And some pretty bitches that ain't
Trip if it's a hit-and-run
I got to go, 'cause I don't do the crying
Bro she Mario
I'm tryna keep the whining to a minimum
Piggies come
Bet I'm splitting quicker than I finish rum
Find me some indica
Nuggets on my fingers and my shirt
Like they was chicken crumbs
The room spinning
Finna 'yack if I don't hit the blunt
Got the chin wagging
Slim chances of me getting up after this
Mind in the trash next to
Where my fucking passion went
Dodge fanatics
Half a Xanax when I'm traveling
Six hours or more, brick out on the tour
Got kicked out of the morgue
Spit cattle manure shit
Shit, rally the Horsemen, tally the corpses
Ripped off my bib, spit out my food
Hiccup and piss urine burning
I could smell the liquor in this
Cats always tryna pick up the
Fist "Duff this dude out"
Rap astute just to get me a grip
Now, it's like bruised face, loose walk
Too sauced distraught thoughts on my corpse
On the asphalt back when I’d slack off
Rock my slacks of my ass half-off
Every time I rap, I blast off
Back when I catch court I always had sports
Dipping on cops in my track shorts
So tell my mom, I had to make it right
I lie every night about the limelight
So I could lie at night
And tell my pops, I gotta take advice
Keep my head screwed on tight
Abuse these mics
See me, I’m the contusion type
A cat to smack the mic against my
Fuckin' head when I'm losing hype
RATKING, never losing hype, no
Smack king, and I do it right, no
RATKING, yeah, I do it nice, whoa
Bitch, I skated before I rapped
If you take me before your captain
Bet 20 hots on your daddy
That someone could 'Nolia Clap him
Probably cold and passive
'Cause Pops was the one that got to me
Feeling down like he passed it
And when I'm cornered, it's action
I was kinda out the game
Mama put the quarter right back in the slot
In '09
We took the 7 to the Dussy 17 to the block
Bitch, if your nigga had Supreme
We was the reason he copped it and nowadays
I'm on the hunt for mirrors to box with
And some pretty bitches that ain't
Trip if it's a hit-and-run
I got to go, 'cause I don't do the crying
Bro she Mario
I'm tryna keep the whining to a minimum
Piggies come
Bet I'm splitting quicker than I finish rum
Find me some indica
Nuggets on my fingers and my shirt
Like they was chicken crumbs
The room spinning
Finna 'yack if I don't hit the blunt
Got the chin wagging
Slim chances of me getting up after this
Mind in the trash next to
Where my fucking passion went
Dodge fanatics
Half a Xanax when I'm traveling
Six hours or more, brick out on the tour
Got kicked out of the morgue
Spit cattle manure shit
Shit, rally the Horsemen, tally the corpses