Released: March 23, 2015
Featuring: Vince Staples
Songwriter: Earl Sweatshirt Vince Staples
Producer: RandomBlackDude
[Intro: Vince Staples]
Yeah, yeah, yeah
[Verse 1: Vince Staples]
Soon as I catch the vibe tell 'em to fetch the hearse
Shorty I’m pressin' lines lifting the Lauren shirt
Tell her to bless the girth if she with it
I’m in that kitchen, wrist water whippin' work (Psych!)
Nigga, I don’t do that
Niggas get bloop-blapped and blown away
Wessons making Mexicans wetbacks like "Órale!"
Okay, I’m onto something
Momma should've told you it’d be days like this
It’s just a tale from the crip
I’m on my séance shit, I’m tryna' make a million dollars
Keep it hood while crossing over on some A.I. shit
I need a foreign baby mama to match a nigga model whip
Ramona Park made me from scratch
A lot of lotto picks lost inside this game we call rap
I be the underdog
Bullet hit his forehead, it exit out his underarm
Ain’t nobody bigger than my hood, my nigga, fuck a boss
Baby-mama killer, you offended, and I fuck her raw
Stretchy doing federal time for busting at the law
And he gon' be a neighbor of mine, you play me for a pawn
Shawty, I be swimming with sharks, your posse full of prawns
Pistols rip his body apart; now, he afraid of dark alleyways
Niggas better listen when the pastor say
[Break: Vince Staples]
Ugh, hold on, hold on, let me hear me that
Ugh, hold on, hold on, ugh
Ugh, hold on, hold on, ugh
[Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt]
It's Golf on that— Bitch, it's Golf on that ball cap
I guzzle the tallboy, Jehovah ain’t call back
And y’all still debating over Earl music
Troops got the group nationwide moving merch units crazy (Nigga)
Peanut butter to paisley
Walking down the street in the different-color McGradys
That first-grader was me
Now, my fist full of spliffs and the old banker receipts
Bitches grip the stick and jerky like cold shanks of the beef, dry
I’m taking purses like they chances in the evening
Pick your pants up, boy, you dancing with a demon
On my mama, I been limiting my features, filling Swishers up with reefer
Bitch, it's difficult to beat him, like a soft dick
Golf clique deep, and we don't hit the streets passive
That nigga Sweaty got the gas, and Shreddy K brought the matches
Pitch your body in the water like a Lipton teabag
And then switch to a different fucking whip to let them piggies speed past him
It's the rats, tryna get the cheese
What it do? Rap like I'm mincing meat
Call me Lou—if I'm on the track, these niggas skip to me
Niggas want to fade me, bitches feel some type of way for me
Fifties in my pocket falling out like fucking baby teeth
Vince be with the rocket, he gon' pop it when it’s danger 'round
Fingertips to tapers now, salute us when you face us
Give a fuck about the moves all these loser niggas making now
Yeah, yeah, yeah
[Verse 1: Vince Staples]
Soon as I catch the vibe tell 'em to fetch the hearse
Shorty I’m pressin' lines lifting the Lauren shirt
Tell her to bless the girth if she with it
I’m in that kitchen, wrist water whippin' work (Psych!)
Nigga, I don’t do that
Niggas get bloop-blapped and blown away
Wessons making Mexicans wetbacks like "Órale!"
Okay, I’m onto something
Momma should've told you it’d be days like this
It’s just a tale from the crip
I’m on my séance shit, I’m tryna' make a million dollars
Keep it hood while crossing over on some A.I. shit
I need a foreign baby mama to match a nigga model whip
Ramona Park made me from scratch
A lot of lotto picks lost inside this game we call rap
I be the underdog
Bullet hit his forehead, it exit out his underarm
Ain’t nobody bigger than my hood, my nigga, fuck a boss
Baby-mama killer, you offended, and I fuck her raw
Stretchy doing federal time for busting at the law
And he gon' be a neighbor of mine, you play me for a pawn
Shawty, I be swimming with sharks, your posse full of prawns
Pistols rip his body apart; now, he afraid of dark alleyways
Niggas better listen when the pastor say
[Break: Vince Staples]
Ugh, hold on, hold on, let me hear me that
Ugh, hold on, hold on, ugh
Ugh, hold on, hold on, ugh
[Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt]
It's Golf on that— Bitch, it's Golf on that ball cap
I guzzle the tallboy, Jehovah ain’t call back
And y’all still debating over Earl music
Troops got the group nationwide moving merch units crazy (Nigga)
Peanut butter to paisley
Walking down the street in the different-color McGradys
That first-grader was me
Now, my fist full of spliffs and the old banker receipts
Bitches grip the stick and jerky like cold shanks of the beef, dry
I’m taking purses like they chances in the evening
Pick your pants up, boy, you dancing with a demon
On my mama, I been limiting my features, filling Swishers up with reefer
Bitch, it's difficult to beat him, like a soft dick
Golf clique deep, and we don't hit the streets passive
That nigga Sweaty got the gas, and Shreddy K brought the matches
Pitch your body in the water like a Lipton teabag
And then switch to a different fucking whip to let them piggies speed past him
It's the rats, tryna get the cheese
What it do? Rap like I'm mincing meat
Call me Lou—if I'm on the track, these niggas skip to me
Niggas want to fade me, bitches feel some type of way for me
Fifties in my pocket falling out like fucking baby teeth
Vince be with the rocket, he gon' pop it when it’s danger 'round
Fingertips to tapers now, salute us when you face us
Give a fuck about the moves all these loser niggas making now
more tracks from the album
From the album