Sam (Is Dead) [feat. Domo Genesis & Tyler, the Creator]

Fuck Steve Harvey This life is a game if you wanna play, countin' all your old mistakes Livin' it with no delay, so fast I'm gettin' growin' pains Father didn't show me my instincts to take the open lane I go insane, all these problems comin' with my growin' age Blowin' haze, tryna clear the doubt that's sittin' on my brain I don't complain, but the kid inside me's feelin' so restrained Gotta stay gold and let desire rekindle the flame Searchin' for the Fountain of Youth when I'm freein' my brain Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass? That's little boy nigga with the trumpets Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions (Niggas) your left, your left, right left (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left (Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left They want a story, a story I write the shit that I find Very amusin', 'cause all of they fuckin' stories are borin' It's really awkward to know that a bunch of kids do adore me It's like I fathered these fuckers, so you won't find me on Maury I'm still a kid in my heart, so I have a problem maturin' But it will come from experiences and shit I see tourin' I'm like a bird when I'm soarin', really high And I'm really horny, from watchin' this porn, nope, but Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass? That's little boy nigga with the trumpets Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions (Niggas) your left (okay), your left, right left (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left (Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left Five, four, three, two, and where's Tyler? Bottom of the countdown, shit ain't been the same Since I found out Hodgy Beats ghost-wrote for Bow Wow Now I'm the loud, shock value style, foul-mouth fucker That your teenage kid likes to bow down Ridin' around town in Seattle With the same shotgun that Kurt used to click-clack, boom-pow Still suicidal, but some assume that I'm cool now 'Cause I got a fuckin' award and my own room now Nope, but I can flip shit like a couch pillow And have my death silent like a loose vowel Um, the bandwagon turned into caboose, so So, don't let that little nigga trumpet lose sound Just let him play