California Games (feat. Earl Sweatshirt)

Yeah

What makes mice out of many a man

I don't think strikes is bottomless

Promises have been the quarter that

Broke the pattern and I noticed I'm always on edge

The homies was saying don't even spazz

The ceiling is glass, we already cracked it

Give it a stamp, reseal up the package

We shipping it back, it wasn't too shabby

But was it your best?

No stress, I'm not even asking

OT like Barnum and Bailey's

Nothing changed much, hounding bag

Home team in the Cressida tan, treat that boy like the jester he is

English on it, perfected the spin

I watch most of the message get missed

Pressure on me, can't prep or pretend

Pardon my absence, peer into the past

My ass got whooped like one of the Jackson's Warrior path

The Man in the Mirror with action

I don't need to ask

I ain't in the trap, the rats in the precinct singing like Toni Braxton

I don't need to stab, but I keep one handy

Only the family

Clandestine handgun, view to a kill

Sub-star confession

Where ocean kiss canyon

Every knee had kneeled through where I'm standing

Gutted, built to spill, wild without abandon

I don't pocket-watch or dig my hands in

Swiss Movement engraved with Sanskrit

Genie in the bottle, dirty dancing rancid

Take off my pants one leg at a time too

Done scrambling, make your move

Talk slanted

Maybe two or three more for weak niggas you ran with

Stranded

I smoke on your confusion, cold lamping

48 hours on the rental, six hours on the plane

California games in the bag and '68 in the shade

I could go mad and take something for the pain

I only came back to tell you about those flames, boy

(Only came back to tell you about them-)

Wire frames and tape across broken nose

Wiretap in broken home

Fire happens, fire grows, fire burns, fire knows

Throats slit, this business pimps and hos

The settlers kill 'em slow if not softly

The eggs and parsley a cup of coffee

Coughing, "Get these motherfuckers up off me, Lord"

It was always fourth down, splitting center

Sickness and the symptom

Sixth sense, stars pointed at people, not conditions

Fingers twist up

If you could just make it through the winter twice bitten

Hers was sweet, mine's more bitter

Worth the wait, darkness always was

In this life I had to be creative

With sour malice, my daughter's power ballads ring 'cross barren fields

Strung with the devil's rope

Gave the dead hope

The living weep, peeping in the telescope

Light leak in the photo

God's feet on they throat

You really went up backwards up the escalator, man

Chill man, I don't want you to harp on this shit

I was pushing it, man, like what we used to be able to do

And I missed that! I miss that I can't just go play ball and do whatever, I miss it, man!

Let's not... c'mon man, playing ball and going the wrong way-

It's the same ath-, it's the same as a pickup game!

Trying to go up a down escalator is a different story, man

It's like a pickup game

It isn't a pickup game

Yes it is

A pickup game is for fun

I felt young!