Whoa (feat. Tyler, The Creator)

Lyrics for Whoa (feat. Tyler, The Creator)

Nah, no, fuck- 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' all that 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 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!) 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 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 pigs' 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 with spitting Steaming tubes of poop and twisted doobies full of euphemisms Stupid, thought it up, jot it quick Thaw it 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 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 (motherfucker) Golf Wang, nigga (lil' bitch-ass niggas) Trashwang, Loiter Squad (This motherfuckin' nigga) Yeah (can't hang with us, nigga) Stay off the block, niggas (You not welcome) You not welcome (motherfucker) Circa '08, bitch! (O.F., nigga) yeah