Whoa Earl Sweatshirt (Ft. Tyler, The Creator)
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "Whoa" by Earl Sweatshirt (Ft. Tyler, The Creator). Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
[Intro: Tyler, the Creator]
Nah, no, nah, nah, fuck that
Niggas think 'cause you fucking made "Chum" and got all personal that niggas won't go back to that old fucking 2010 shit about talking 'bout fucking everything-all
No, fuck that, nigga, I got you
Fuck that
[Verse 1: Earl Sweatshirt]
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 filetted sentences
Advanced apathy, smashing the man cameras up
Tan khakis, an antagonist Dan-dappered up
Ha, vagabond, had it since a Padawan
Rapping hot as fucking cattle brands wearing flannel thongs
Grab a bong, mama and some food, beer, tag along
Get a nice spanking, uh, new Sears catalog
Send them nettled critics to the bezel stop, dead and wrong
Get 'em higher than the pitch of metal tea-kettle songs
(Bitch-ass niggas!)
[Hook 1: Tyler, the Creator]
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 the Dollar Menu still be on deck
Nigga it's the mothafuckin' G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
Nah, no, nah, nah, fuck that
Niggas think 'cause you fucking made "Chum" and got all personal that niggas won't go back to that old fucking 2010 shit about talking 'bout fucking everything-all
No, fuck that, nigga, I got you
Fuck that
[Verse 1: Earl Sweatshirt]
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 filetted sentences
Advanced apathy, smashing the man cameras up
Tan khakis, an antagonist Dan-dappered up
Ha, vagabond, had it since a Padawan
Rapping hot as fucking cattle brands wearing flannel thongs
Grab a bong, mama and some food, beer, tag along
Get a nice spanking, uh, new Sears catalog
Send them nettled critics to the bezel stop, dead and wrong
Get 'em higher than the pitch of metal tea-kettle songs
(Bitch-ass niggas!)
[Hook 1: Tyler, the Creator]
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 the Dollar Menu still be on deck
Nigga it's the mothafuckin' G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
G-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G
Comments (0)
The minimum comment length is 50 characters.
Information
Users of Guests are not allowed to comment this publication.
There are no comments yet. You can be the first!