Skip to content

Oldie Lyrics – Odd Future

    Oldie is a popular song by Odd Future from the 2012 album The OF Tape Vol. 2. Check words to Odd Future Oldie Lyrics in English below.

    Oldie Lyrics – Odd Future 

    [Intro: Taco & Tyler, the Creator]
    Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album, you feel me, son?
    Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas
    Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle
    Shouts out to Domyen, shouts out to Frankie Ocean
    Shouts out to Syd the Dude
    Shouts out to L-Boy, awwwwk
    I told you

    [Verse 1: Tyler, the Creator]
    The big-eared bandit is tossin’ all his manners
    In a bag and wrappin’ them in Saran wrap bandages
    Tossin’ ’em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
    So when he says, “Catch up, nigga,” it looks like an accident
    Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest
    My bitch white and black like she’s been mimicking a panda
    It’s the dark-skinned nigga, kissing bitches in Canada
    Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela
    Put her in the chamber all against her Wilt Chamberlain
    I never had a reason, nigga, I was just Ableton
    Not a fucking Logic-contradicting dickhead (Not a Logic)
    Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
    Semen-scented cheetah printed tee
    In that ‘Preme five-panel, I’ll repeat it for the season (Hahaha)
    Previous items in the present
    With the normal-ass past like I cheated on my team
    It’s me (Tried to get that nigga, but, Golf Wang see, he did come back, though)
    [Verse 2: Hodgy]
    To have some type of knowledge that is one perception
    But knowin’ you own your opponent is a defeatin’ bonus
    I’m Zeus to a Kronos, cartilage cartridge is boneless
    Smiles of cowards in lead showers, dead spouses in red blouses
    Children who fled houses on Mustang horses and went joustin’
    I’m on my Robin Hood shit, robbing in the hood
    Whips, drugs, jewels and your pet, I’m stealin’ your rims
    Coke diamonds and your Vette, soldiers lace the fuckin’ boot
    And salute like the troop, when they shoot, you gon’ brrrooop
    It’s KILLHodgy, nigga, stay the fuck off my stoop
    And out my Kool-Aid, Juice

    [Verse 3: Left Brain]
    What’s up, bitch?
    Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin
    Jasper got the Henny, my nigga, we get it in
    Wolf Gang party at the hotel
    I call a ho, you call a ho, and all the hoes tell
    You know Left Brain need a freak (Yeah)
    I need a bitch to go down like a Nitty beat
    Yup, uh, and her ass fat
    Don’t be surprised if I ask where the hash at
    Nigga, I’m tryna smoke, bitch, get higher (What up, what up, what’s up, smoke)
    Domo, where that Flocka Flame? Talking ’bout a lighter
    Still bang salute me or just shoot me
    ‘Cause if you don’t salute me then my team will do the shooting
    Yeah, my nigga Ace will pull the black jack
    The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
    We like the mafia, bitch, don’t get to slacking up
    And if these haters acting up, throw ’em in the aqueduct
    Free my nigga Earl, yo, I don’t really ask for much
    But two bad bitches in front of me cunnilingus
    [Verse 4: Mike G]
    (We out here)
    What the fuck is caution?
    Often I leave ’em flossing in KAWS, exes next to coffins
    Lost in translation, the dreams you chase
    Got you diving for the plates like you stealing home base
    That’s great, I’m home alone dreaming of two on ones
    With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on
    And Travis is in the closet organizing and hanging the tramp
    Three lettermans that Ace has been making him
    No strays while we catching matinees, huh?
    I’m getting blazed thinking ’bout those days
    I had the top off the GT3 like toupees
    One finger in the air, all’s fair when crime pays
    My grand scheme of things is to be attached
    To the game like bitches to their wedding rings
    And you don’t even need to look ’cause we gleam obscene
    In the light, ride slow to my yellow diamond shining
    Like the Batman logo over Gotham, rock LA to Harlem
    If you say, “Get ’em, Mike G,” then I got ’em
    One man squadron, nigga, I’m a problem
    From Briggs, I got bars and plans to
    Pimp these Polish bitches into pop stars
    Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still
    And if I said it then it is or it’s gonna be real
    OF ’til I OD and I probably will, uh
    [Verse 5: Domo Genesis]
    It’s still Mr. Smoke-a-Lotta-Pot, get your baby mommy popped
    With my other snobby bop, do I love her? Probably not
    Know your shit is not as hot as anything I fuckin’ drop
    Bitch, I’m in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay Culk
    I’ve been runnin’ blocks since a snotty tot
    Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glocks
    Now I’m all grown, same song, just a different waltz
    Fire what I talk, but still cooler than an Otter Pop
    Op, Dom next shit in your wish list
    Mad sick shit, mad dick for your bitches
    On some slick shit, your mistress on my hit list
    And I’m lifted ’til I’m stiff outta this bitch
    Odd in your motherfuckin’ area (Motherfuckin’ area)
    Blood clots give me five feet ‘fore I bury ya
    (‘Fore I bury ya)
    Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
    (Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya)
    Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carrey up
    And fuck your team, ho, nigga, wassup? (Wassup?)
    Wolf Gang so you know we not givin’ no fucks
    You know me dog, I’m a chill in the cut
    So I can cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up

    [Interlude: Frank Ocean]
    Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
    Right, right

    [Verse 6: Frank Ocean]
    Rent a supercar for a day
    Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze
    Bro, easy on the ounce, that’s a lot for a day
    But just enough for a week, my nigga, what can I say?
    I’m high and I’m bi, wait, I mean I’m straight
    I’ma get you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes
    My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day
    Course you know the vibe’s just as fly as the rhymes
    On the song, cut and you could sample the feel
    Headphone bleed, make this shit sound real
    Used to work the grill, fat burger and fries
    Then I made a mil’ and them psychics was liars
    Now, how many fucking crystal balls can I buy and own?
    Humble old me had to flex for the folks
    Down in Muscle Beach pumping iron and bone
    Bumping oldies off my cellular phone
    Yeah, bumping oldies off my cellular phone
    Bumping oldies off my cellular phone

    [Interlude: Jasper Dolphin]
    Rapping is stupid and it’s hard
    Gotta do it over and over and over again but here it go

    [Verse 7: Jasper Dolphin]
    Hey, it’s Jasper, not even a rapper
    Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster
    Got a TV show, so I guess I’m an actor
    Pothead, half-baked, lookin’ like Chappelle
    Rollin’ up a blunt with that fire from hell (Woo)
    Still ignorant, still hit a bitch (Wow)
    Wolf Gang, nigga, so I still don’t give a shit (Woo)
    Catch me in the back with Miley’s on my lap (Shit)
    Bong rips as I feel on that little bitch cat (Cat)

    [Interlude: Jasper Dolphin & Earl Sweatshirt]
    Hah, nigga came through with a 9-bar real quick
    Just for the bitches, little bit of money in my pocket
    Fuck it, Wolf Gang
    Yeah, fuck that

    [Verse 8: Earl Sweatshirt]
    Look, for contrast, here’s a pair of lips
    Swallowin’ sarapin, settin’ fire to sheriff’s whips
    (Whoops, whoops!) Fuckin’ All-American terrorist
    Crushin’ rapper larynx to feed ’em a fuckin’ carrot stick
    And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin’
    And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
    Spit ’til the lips meet the bottom of a barrel, so that sterile piss
    Flow remind these niggas where embarrassed is
    Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
    I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
    Feral, fuckin’ ill-apparel-wearin’ pack of parasites
    Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
    La di da di, back in here to fuck the party up
    Raidin’ fridges, tippin’ over vases with a tommy gun
    Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
    And sixty-day chips from fuckin’ awesome anonymous
    Call him bloated ’til he show ’em that the flow deluxe
    Off the wall loafers, Four Loko in a cobra clutch
    Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ho to pose as drum
    And let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole is numb
    The culprit of the potent punch
    Scoldin’ hot as dunkin’ scrotum in a Folgers cup
    Or Nevada, drivin’ drunk inside a stolen truck
    And shittin’ like his colon bust
    Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
    Supernova, I’m rollin’ over the novices
    And roamin’ through the forest and spittin’ cold as his porridge is
    Stay gold ’til the case closed and the story end
    Post mortem porkin’ this rap shit and record it
    To escort it to the morgue again, lord of lips
    Bored of this, forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list
    Stormin’ the gate, ensurin’ the bass
    Scorchin’, leave these motherfuckers sore in torso and face (Ugh)
    Get at me, we savages, half a pack of Apache
    Indian pack of niggas who don’t give a fuck if we nasty as flatulence
    As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky
    So see me, you can’t, like Crunchy Black catchin’ a taxi
    Uh, back like lateral passin’
    With that motherfuckin’ gladiator manner of rappin’
    As an addict, I let Percocet and Xannies relax me
    Fall back if your paddies is Maxi, please

    [Verse 9: Tyler, the Creator]
    OF, shit, that’s all I got
    From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
    From that father figure Clancy to that skatey nigga Nak
    Shreddin’ down ‘Fax, Wolf Gang run the fuckin’ block
    Storefront, knee tat
    Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
    And grip tape… and my shoes
    Um, I was fifteen when I first drew that donut
    Five years later, for our label, yeah, we own it
    I started an empire, I ain’t even old enough
    To drink a fucking beer, I’m tipsy off this soda pop
    This is for the niggers in the suburbs
    And the white kids with nigga friends that say the n-word
    And the ones who got called weird, fag, bitch, nerd
    ‘Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats and Steven Spielberg
    They say we ain’t actin’ right
    Always try to turn our fuckin’ color into black and white
    But they’ll never change ’em, never understand ’em
    Radical’s my anthem, turn my fuckin’ amps up
    So instead of critiquing and bitchin’, bein’ mad as fuck
    Just admit, not only are we talented, we’re rad as fuck, bitches

    [Outro: Tyler, the Creator]
    OFM, banging on your FM
    Gnaw, 2011, yeah
    Golf Wang


    Writer(s): Odd Future (Tyler, The Creator, Hodgy Beats, Domo Genesis, Frank Ocean, et al.)

    Leave a Reply

    Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *