[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!)

[Chorus: 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

[Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt]

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 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

[Chorus: Tyler, the Creator]

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

[Outro: Tyler, the Creator]

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! Yeah

(O.F., nigga)