text: Im recordin that shit on the fuckin little mic
  By the little camera thing on the fuckin Mac book
  So this shit is choppy and bad quality, but fuck it
  Wolf Gang, Ace Creator
  Somebody tell Justin Beiber that Im fuckin coming
  Aint no point in runnin, Im a nigga, just a little quicker
  So I catch him stretchin, have him guessin where his cracker throat
  Chop his balls off and use his skin to make a baby coat
  Aint he dope? No, he the same as shit that Tyler wrote
  This is Ace, Wolf is in the back with Travis snortin coke
  Rileys here, Connies dead, pickin pussy pisses pike
  She wont leave, dick as big as Kelly Prices appetite
  Apprehend a couple men, triple six is fuckin sin
  Make Queen Latifah and Sydney go slap a couple dykes
  Wrap around til they hit the ground and they hear a sound
  That doesnt make sense like nigga kids wearing cap and gowns
  This my album, and when your parents try to come around
  Do the fuckin exact opposite of turnin it down
  And when they try to get parental and start talkin loud
  Tell them that youre from the Wolf Gang and youre fuckin proud
  Then start barkin loud til the neighbors wanna calm you down
  But call the pigs, wholl probably come in bout a half an hour
  Tell them that your sorry, youre a cow, took a fuckin shower
  But make it in time for shitty re-runs of Rocket Power
  This is the shit that is makin me cynical
  The clinical attempts at schizophrenias critical
  Fuckin voices follow me, emulatin like twitter roll
  O.F. is a cult, assume that Im the fucking general
  So when I mention suicide, Im being Mr. Literal
  The coke inside nine capsules, fuck it lets split a roll
  Life is like a phone booth, these pigeons is the fuckin toll
  1-800-fuck-this-shit
  Seven years old in my heart, so Im stayin gold
  But when I fuckin go, Lucifer will probably have my soul
  Its hot down there, fuck that, bitch Im hot as coals
  Out the microwave, mixed with a bowl of yellow raviol
  And a firetruck and Arizona durin summertime
  In a turtle neck, thermal jeans, spit purple wine
  Wolf Gang pete and gon live, running outta time
  The fuck I give is the same as the next line
   Thats what my conscience said
  Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead
  So the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement
  Actions speak louder than words, let me try this shit