Whoa Lyrics - Doris - Earl Sweatshirt

Nahh no, nahh nahh 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 

Raquets 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 fileted 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, 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 

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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 

50 K for the last check 

But the Dollar Menu still be on deck, 

Nigga its 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 

Photos 

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