Tyler the creator thought he can pop some slick shit so i took his head off on his own beat.

Everybody thinks it’s all sweet out here or somethin’
Diabolic in this motherfucker
Rebel Army, bitch!
Y’all little skaters wanna war?
We’re storming your castle. Ho!
Smack you off your fucking skateboard
Check it

[Verse 1]
He’s a fucking walking paradox, no he’s not
He’s a fag in tight gear wearing a striped pair of socks
Now, don’t make me blow your spot with an Iraqi missile
For acting like a bipolar bitch with daddy issues
Honestly, there’s probably a reason that he ditched you:
Took one look at his daughter and wasn’t happy with you
It’s like “Hi son, Daddy missed you, how’s your mother?
I’m about to fuck her and nut all over your album cover.”
That crowd of suckers, Golf Wangas, nerds who web search
Key words and exerts, ’til they crash your server networks
So tell those girls I’ll run in your circle head first
Choke Tyler with the draw strings on Earl’s Sweatshirt
Or lead burst stab you at your record release
For ever mentioning “Immortal Tech-of-the-nique”
You’re soft as ordering a Sex on the Beach
Bruno Mars would whoop your ass if you met in the street, bitch!

That’s just the fuckin’ warning shot
It’s that Diabolic shit right there!
That Rebel Army shit, motherfucker!
New York in this motherfucker
It’s about to go down, y’all ready?
This is where we kill ’em
One time, yo

[Verse 2]
Jesus called, he said it’s sad seeing Tyler starving
Stop eating roaches off the carpet at Kreayshawn’s apartment
Marvin cringed when this vigilante dissed his family
Ate a stripper’s antes and danced around in his sister’s panties
Well the only shit that tickles this bitch’s fancy
Is when Christian Clancy sticks dick in his little fanny
This tranny seems lost; he cross dresses with these dorks
And beats off to pictures of himself in skinny jean shorts
Police are on the scene with stomach pumps and report
That Tyler guzzled 3 quarts of Frank Ocean’s meat sauce
Ya’ll way too weak, soft and puss to ball up your fists now
Even Rhianna had the balls to scrap and brawl with Chris Brown
But you just bitched out. Management would make moves
And Guerilla Union paid some fake dudes that never paid dues
This here’s a prelude to me with a semi wildin’
And a mask on like you performing on Jimmy Fallon
Bitch, I be squeezin’ and you be leakin’ 60 gallons
From the hot lead ’til you drop dead like Ritchie Valens
So, fuck this little skater, I’ve been sick since Christian Slater
Was Gleaming the Cube with Tony Hawk on the Vision Gator
Incinerate a Creator for fans on YouTube
A few views later and haters will say I’m doodoo. [He sucks!]
But who knew he’d jerk off and think of Hopsin?
While I’m fingerpoppin’ twats, cocks the only thing you’re gobblin’
Wait, did you say “Goblin”? Yeah, like your single droppin’
You mention my people and didn’t think a thing would stop it?
Now, you’re mistaken like thinking hip hop suits you
’til the past came back to haunt you and called you an Odd Future, bitch!

Fuckin’ smack the shit out of you little faggots
Fuck outta here!

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