Tekst piosenki 'Tamale' wykonawcy 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? Um
Smell my gooch, you could kiss my buns
And I don't give a shit, bend my rectum
Somebody said bands make her dance
You think you're getting cash, no bitch, you're dumb
The only thing that you're gonna get is this dick
Wait, turn this up, bitch, this my jam, (where the drums at?)

Here, take a goddamn picture
And tell Spike Lee he's a goddamn 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

Tamale, ah! Tamale, ah! Tamale, ah! Tamale!
Why y'all so salty, hot tamale is on
A can of beans, bitch, 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? Motherfucka I'm great
Golf Wang prints always cover the sleeves
From cuts for the Biebs, 'cause he's puffin' the trees, please

Fuck I look like? Got a new bike tire
Never popped like the pussy on a bitch dyke
Think I give a fuck, I do, I go balls
Then I bust in her jaw like (fuck that disease!)
My urethra, hole that I pee from
Bigger than an obese hanging on Aretha
Now, turn that snare down
I'm back like I'm Rosa Parks fare
On the same damn bus like: You're going to jail now!

Tamale, ah! Tamale, ah! Tamale, ah! Tamale
Why y'all so salty? Hot tamale is on
A can of beans, bitch, I'm on, your boy is bad to the bone

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?
If a woodchuck could ever give a fuck?
Bitch suck dick, motherfuck 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, fuck Michael, bitch 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 fuck you, na na na na na na!
Why y'all so salty? Hot tamale is on
A can of beans, bitch, 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 shit
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 nigga, huh?

A little Jergens in my palm for the jerkin'
Hope my mom don't catch me, tryna set mood
Little Redtube, fuck lotion, I don't need lube, dry fist suits me
Up and down, the friction makes a sound, shit's kind of disgusting
Fap time and before I flatline, Clancy chimes in my room and catch me
This shit's so damn embarrassing like-

Oh shit, aw (fuck)
What the fuck!?
Aw, I'm sorry
Is that my shirt?
Yeah, I'm sorry, I just wanted some bangs
Clean that shit up, we're going to the office
Aw, fuck