Whoa (Feat. Tyler, The Creator) – Earl Sweatshirt – letras

[Intro: Tyler, the Creator]Nahh no, nahh nahh fuck thatNiggas think cause you fuckin made Chumand got all personalThat niggas wont go back to that old fuckin 2010 shitAbout talkin bout fuckin everything allNo fuck that nigga I got youFuck that[Verse 1: Earl Sweatshirt]Grab mittens who have to spit blizzardousActually flick cigarette ash at bitch niggasHarassment, eight nickels of hashdelay quick, and then dashTo Saint Nicholas pad to taste venisonStill in the business of smacking up little rappers withRaquets you play tennis with, hated for bank lifting andSpraying that hotter wind in the shadeof his maimed innocenceSuitcase scented with haze and fileted sentencesAdvanced apathy, smashing the man cameras upTan khakis and antagonists Dan-dappered upVagabond, had it since a PadawanRapping hot as fuck in cattle brandswearing flannel thongsGrab a bong, momma and some food, beer, tag alongGet a nice spanking, new Sears catalogSend them nettled critics to the bezzle stopdead and wrongGet em higher than the pitch of metal tea kettle songs[Hook: Tyler, the Creator]Four deep in a Rover cannonRiding dirty through a Saugus canyonniggas know that its theG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-GG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G50 K for the last checkBut the Dollar Menu still be on deckNigga its the mutherfuckinG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-GG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G[Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt]Yeah, the Misadventures of a shit talkerPissed as Rick Ross fifth sip off his sixth lagerKnown to sit and wash the sins off at the pitch alterHat never backwards like the print off legit mangaGet it? Like a blue pill, make ya stick longerOr a swift fist off your chin from his wrist launcherChick, chronic thrift shopper, thick like the Knicks rosterStormed off and came straight back like pigs posturePen? Naw, probably written with some used syringesFrom out the rubbish bin at your local loony clinicWatching movies in a room full of goons he rentedOn the hunt for clues, more food, and some floozy womenBruising gimmicks with the broomhe usually use for QuidditchGooey writtens, scoot em to a ditchchewed and booty scentedToo pretentious, do pretend like he could lose to spittingSteaming tubes of poop and twisted doobiesfull of euphemismsStupid, thought it up, jot it quickThought out, toss it right back like a vodka fifthSpot him on a rocket swapping dollars in for pocket lintThen lob a wad of chicken at a copper on some Flocka shit[Hook: Tyler, the Creator]Posing nigga try to disrespectGet a fucking thunder to his neck, shout out to Nakcause its theG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-GG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-GLooking bummy, posted on the blocklooking like I ain’t makeA quarter million off of socks, nigga, cause its theG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-GG-O-L-F-dub-A-N-G