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Lyricist: Tyler, The Creator
| Song: | Blow |  
| Album: | Bastard | Genres: | Rap |  
| Year: | 2009 | Length: | 175 sec |  Lyrics: 
 If this was a gameI already know that I would come out winner
 And I'm not braggin', I'mma be in her
 But this bitch really think that I'm 'bout to buy her dinner
 My steak good, I got a good cut like splinter
 Juicy and hot such a black bitch temper
 Now she wanna talk and chop it up like a blender
 But I don't give a fuck and keep her list'in like Schindler
 she's cute but her forehead's big
 Got stretch marks like she got four kids
 Her legs can't close like the four door hinge Bronco
 That O.J. killed the white hos with
 A wealthy white girl without the facelift
 Lure her with expensive dinners and a nice bracelet
 Leave the bitch breathless, what the bitch don't know is that
 I'm a muthafuckin' sellout and a rapist
 Baby, you're an angel
 How 'bout we turn this into a fable of some sort?
 You already know you're dead
 Ironic cause your lipstick is red, of course
 I stuff you in the trunk, drunk
 Cause all I really wanna do is fuck and snort blow
 If this was a game
 I would be considered a muthafuckin' legend
 And I ain't tryna gas you up like Chevron
 But I'm high as fuck bitch, you really need to get on my leverage
 Now we're in the cabin, in the middle of uhh
 Dreamy little bastard, I done ran outta luck so now
 it's time for a bloody foot you little rabbit
 you're very attractive, and notice that
 My hat is always the color of cactus
 And I hang with wolves cause I'm an evil Bastard
 Pictures of you on my wall no glue, no tape but just cum plastered
 Met you at my school, departed at my house
 Ended at your panties, started at your blouse
 Pushed you down stairs, I took a nap up on the couch
 If you wanted a date, don't come
 Now you gotta make it easy for me don't run
 You call this shit kids, well I call these kids cum
 And you call this shit rape but I think that rape's fun
 Wait now it's about eight somethin
 it's late and you stuck in my base-one
 Come downstairs with nothin' but a shoe string
 Yeah bitch this date's done
 Baby, you're an angel
 How 'bout we turn this into a fable of some sort?
 You already know you're dead
 Ironic cause your lipstick is red, of course
 I stuff you in the trunk, drunk
 Cause all I really wanna do is fuck and snort blow
 I like my girls how I like my drugs, white
 Lord, you're so pretty, lyin' in my arms
 I just got one request, stop breathin'
 
 
		
		
	
 
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