Luyện nghe bài hát Yonkers

I'm a fucking paradox, no I'm not
Threesomes with a triceratops, Reptar
Rapping as I'm mocking deaf rock
Wearing synthetic wigs made of Anwar's
Bedrock, harder than a Flintstone
Making crack rocks out of nigga fishbones
This nigga Jasper to get grown
5'7" of his bitches in my bedroom
Swallow the cinnamon, I'm a scribble sin and shit
While Syd is telling me that been getting intimate with men
(Syd, shut the fuck up) Here's the number to my
(Shit) him all your problems, he's fucking awesome with listening

called, he said he's sick of the disses
I told him to quit bitching and this isn't a hotline
For a fucking shrink, I already got mine
And he's not working, I think I'm wasting my damn time
I'm clocking three six and going postal
This the revenge of the dicks, that's nine cocks that nines
ain't no V Tech shit or Columbine
But after bowling, I went home for damn Adventure Time
(What'd you do?) I slipped myself some Xannies
And danced around the house in all-over panties
My gone, that fucking broad will never understand me
I'm not gay, I just wanna to some Marvin
(What you think of Hayley Williams?) Fuck her, Wolf robbing them
I'll crash that fucking airplane that faggot nigga B.o.B is in
And Bruno Mars in his goddamn esophagus
And stop until the cops come in
I'm an achiever, so how about I start a team of leaders
And pick up Stevie to be the wide receiver
Green paper, gold teeth and pregnant retrievers
Is all I want, fuck money, and bitches, don't need them
But the fat ones at? I got something to feed them
It's some cooking books, the black never wanted to read them
Snap back, green fucking leaves
It's been a couple months, and still ain't perm her fucking weave, damn

They say success is the revenge
So I beat up with the stack of magazines I'm in
Oh, not again! Another critic report
I'm stabbing any blogging hipster with a Pitchfork
Still I am
I'm Wolf, Tyler put fucking knife in my hand
I'm Wolf, Ace gon' put that fucking in my head
And I'm Wolf, that was me who shoved a cock in your
(What the fuck, man?) the fame and all the hype, G
I just to know if my father would ever like me
But I give a fuck, so he's probably just like me
A motherfuckin',
(Fuck everything, man) That's what my conscience
Then it hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
Now the only guidance that I had is splattered on
Actions louder than words, let me try this shit, dead