Whoa (feat. Tyler, The Creator)

Earl Sweatshirt

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Whoa (feat. Tyler, The Creator) Song Lyrics
Nah no, nah, nah fuck that
Niggas think 'cause you fuckin' made Chum and got all personal
That niggas won't go back to that old fuckin' 2010 shit
About talkin' 'bout fuckin' everything all
No fuck that nigga I got you
Fuck that

Grab mittens who have to spit blizzardous
Actually flick cigarette ash at bitch niggas
Harassment, eight nickels of hash, delay quick, and then dash
To Saint Nicholas pad to taste venison
Still in the business of smacking up little rappers with
Racquets you play tennis with, hated for bank lifting and
Spraying then hide away in the shade of his maimed innocence
Suitcase scented with haze and filleted sentences

Advanced apathy, smashing the man cameras up
Tan khakis, an antagonist Dan-dappered up
Vagabond, had it since a Padawan
Rapping hot as fucking cattle brands wearing flannel thongs
Grab a bong, momma and some food, beer, tag along
Get a nice spanking (ah), new Sears catalog
Send them nettled critics to the bezzle stop, dead and wrong
Get 'em higher than the pitch of metal tea kettle songs

Four deep in a Rover cannon
Riding dirty through a saugus canyon, niggas know that it's the
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
50k for the last check
But Dollar menu still be on deck
Nigga it's the motherfuckin'
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G

Yeah, the Misadventures of a shit-talker
Pissed as Rick Ross's fifth sip off his sixth lager
Known to sit and wash the sins off at the pitch alter
Hat never backwards like the print off legit manga
Get it like a blue pill, make ya stick longer
Or a swift fist off your chin from his wrist launcher
Chick, chronic thrift shopper, thick like the Knicks roster
Stormed off and came straight back like fixed posture

Pen? Naw, probably written with some used syringes
From out the rubbish bin at your local loony clinic
Watching movies in a room full of goons he rented
On the hunt for clues, more food, and some floozy women
Bruising gimmicks with the broom he usually use for Quidditch
Gooey writtens, scoot 'em to a ditch, chewed and booty scented
Too pretentious, do pretend like he could lose to spitting
Steaming tubes of poop and twisted doobies full of euphemisms

Stupid, thought it up, jot it quick
Thought out, toss it right back like a vodka fifth
Spot him on a rocket swapping dollars in for pocket lint
Then lob a wad of chicken at a copper on some Flocka shit

Posing nigga try to disrespect
Get a fucking thunder to his neck, shout out to Nak, 'cause it's the
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
Looking bummy, posted on the block, looking like I ain't make
A quarter million off of socks, nigga, 'cause it's the
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G

Bitch niggas
Wolf gang
Golf wang Nigga
Trash Wayne all the squad
Yeah
Stay off the block niggas
You're not welcome
Bitch (O-F, nigga, yeah)
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