Lyrics

Earl Sweatshirt – AM // Radio Lyrics

Updated

March 17, 2023

Earl Sweatshirt – AM // Radio Lyrics

AM // Radio Lyrics by Earl Sweatshirt

“AM // Radio” features rapper Wiki from NYC group RATKING. “Radio” is an instrumental starting at approximately 2:27. The beat is from a slowed-down sample of G Herbo’s “Knucklehead,” which featured Earl, the song was produced by Earl himself under his alter-ego RandomBlackDude.

[Part 1: AM]

[Verse 1: Wiki]
Nineteen, still gettin’ kicked out the crib
Ripped off my bib, spit out my food, hiccup and piss
Urine burning, I could smell the liquor in this
Cats always tryna pick up the fist—”Duff this dude out”
Rap astute just to get me a grip
Now, it’s like bruised face, loose walk, too sauced
Distraught thoughts on my corpse on the asphalt
Back when I’d slack off, rock my slacks of my ass half-off
Every time I rap, I blast off
Back when I catch court I always had sports
Dipping on cops in my track shorts
So tell my mom, I had to make it right
I lie every night about the limelight so I could lie at night
And tell my pops, I gotta take advice
Keep my head screwed on tight, abuse these mics
See me, I’m the contusion type
A cat to smack the mic against my fuckin’ head when I’m losing hype
RATKING, never losing hype, no
Smack king, and I do it right, no
RATKING, yeah, I do it nice, whoa

[Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt]
Bitch, I skated before I rapped
If you take me before your captain, bet 20 hots on your daddy
That someone could ‘Nolia Clap him, probably cold and passive
‘Cause Pops was the one that got to me, feeling down like he passed it
And when I’m cornered, it’s action, I was kinda out the game
Mama put the quarter right back in the slot
In ’09, we took the 7 to the Dussy 17 to the block
Bitch, if your nigga had Supreme, we was the reason he copped it
And nowadays, I’m on the hunt for mirrors to box with
And some pretty bitches that ain’t trip if it’s a hit-and-run
I got to go, ’cause I don’t do the crying, bro
She Mario, I’m tryna keep the whining to a minimum
Piggies come, bet I’m splitting quicker than I finish rum
Find me some indica
Nuggets on my fingers and my shirt like they was chicken crumbs
The room spinning, finna ‘yack if I don’t hit the blunt
Got the chin wagging
Slim chances of me getting up after this
Mind in the trash next to where my fucking passion went
Dodge fanatics, half a Xanax when I’m traveling
Six hours or more, brick out on the tour
Got kicked out of the morgue, spit cattle manure shit
Shit, rally the Horsemen, tally the corpses