Cult Shit

I'm recordin' that shit on the fuckin' little mic

By the little camera thing on the fuckin' Mac book

So this shit is choppy and bad quality, but fuck it

Wolf Gang, Ace Creator

Somebody tell Justin Bieber that I'm fuckin' coming

Ain't no point in runnin', I'm a nigger, just a little quicker

So I catch him stretchin', have him guessin' where his cracker throat

Chop his balls off and use his skin to make a baby coat

Ain't he dope? No, he the same as shit that Tyler wrote

This is Ace, Wolf is in the back with Travis snortin' coke

Riley's here, Connie's dead, pickin' pussy pisses pike

She won't leave, dick as big as Kelly Price's appetite

Apprehend a couple men, triple six is fuckin' sin

Make Queen Latifah and Sydney go slap a couple dykes

Wrap around 'til they hit the ground and they hear a sound

That doesn't make sense like nigger kids wearing cap and gowns

This my album, and when your parents try to come around

Do the fuckin' exact opposite of turnin' it down

And when they try to get parental and start talkin' loud

Tell them that you're from the Wolf Gang and you're fuckin' proud

Then start barkin' loud 'til the neighbors wanna calm you down

But call the pigs, who'll probably come in bout a half an hour

Tell them that your sorry, you're a cow, took a fuckin' shower

But make it in time for shitty re-runs of Rocket Power

This is the shit that is makin' me cynical

The clinical attempts at schizophrenia's critical

Fuckin' voices follow me, emulatin' like twitter roll

O.F. is a cult, assume that I'm the fucking general

So when I mention suicide, I'm being Mr. Literal

The coke inside nine capsules, fuck it let's split a roll

Life is like a phone booth, these pigeons is the fuckin' toll

1-800-fuck-this-shit

Seven years old in my heart, so I'm stayin' gold

But when I fuckin' go, Lucifer will probably have my soul

It's hot down there, fuck that, bitch I'm hot as coals

Out the microwave, mixed with a bowl of yellow raviol

And a firetruck and Arizona durin' summertime

In a turtle neck, thermal jeans, spit purple wine

Wolf Gang pete and gon' live, running outta time

The fuck I give is the same as the next line

(Fuck everything) That's what my conscience said

Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead

So the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement

Actions speak louder than words, let me try this shit