Tamale (Explicit) - Tyler, The Creator

Lyrics by：Tyler Okonma

Composed by：Tyler Okonma

Produced by：Tyler/The Creator

Tamale tamale tamale tamale tamale tamale tamale

They say I've calmed down since the last album

Well lick my dick how does that sound Ummm

Smell my gooch you could kiss my buns

And I don't give a s**t ban my rectum

Somebody said bands make her dance

You think you're getting cash no b***h you're dumb

The only thing that you're gonna get is this dick

Wait turn this up b***h this my jam

Where the drums at

Here take a godd**n picture

And tell Spike Lee he's a godd**n nigger

And while you're at it pass the lotion

And fapping and Xbox Live that fun

Before I cum I call your sister

When she comes over I take picture

Instantly put it on Instagram

And suplex her off a building if I get banned

I'm just f**king around

Tamale Tamale Tamale Tamale

Why y'all so salty Hot tamale is on

A can of beans b***h 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" Motherf**ker I'm great

Yeah

Golf Wang prints always cover the sleeves

From cuts for the Biebs 'cause he's puffin' the trees please

F**k I look like Got a new bike

Tire never pop like the puss on a butch dyke

Think I give a f**k I do go raw

Then I bust in her jaw like

F**k that disease b***h

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 d**n 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 b***h I'm on

Your boy is bad to the bone

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck

If a woodchuck could ever give a f**k

B***h suck dick motherf**k 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 f**k Michael b***h 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 f**k you na na na na na na

Why y'all so salty Hot tamale is on

A can of beans b***h 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 s**t

And shoot through Wayne LaPierre's hair with a crucifix

How many ladies in the house

How many ladies in the house without a rich n***a huh

A little Jergens in my palm for the jerkin'

Hope my mom don't catch me tryna set mood

Little Redtube f**k lotion I don't need lube dry fist suits me

Yeah

Up and down friction make a *fap fap* sound

The s**t's kind of disgusting

Fap time and before I flatline

Clancy chimes in my room and catch me

This s**t's so d**n embarrassing like

Oh s**t aw f**k

What the f**k

Aw I'm sorry

Is that my shirt

Yeah sorry I needed something

Clean that s**t up we're going to the office