TYLER, THE CREATOR- Domo 23 LYRICS

[Verse 1]
Sick to my motherfuckin’ tummy
Bitch must think I’m a motherfuckin’ dummy
Because I dress bummy, bitch think I’m broke
Bitch, I ate one roach and I made a lot of money
Poppin’ since Bastard, Clancy is my slave master
Thanks to them crackers, my pockets are fatter than excess shit that’s weightin’ on Jasper
I’ve never popped a bottle, but I’ve fucked a couple models in Europe
Yup, and a couple of them swallowed
Meet me half way, bitch I’m goin’ all in
And I never pull back, shout-out to my nigga Taco

[Hook (x3)]
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)

[Verse 2]
So, a couple fags threw a little hissfit
Came to Pitchfork with a couple Jada Pinkett signs
And said I was a racist homophobic
So I grabbed Lucas and filmed us kissin’
Feelings gettin’ caught, it’s off, I’m pissin’
You think I give a fuck? I ain’t even stick my dick in yet
(No homo; too soon.)
And while y’all are rollin’ doobies
I be in my bedroom scorin’ movies
Still, I’m soundin’ like a fuckin’ newbie
Suck my dick, motherfucker, sue me
Mom got a new whip so she could scoop me
A year ago, I ain’t have no hoopty
Four story home, gotta climb eight sets of stairs
Just to see where my fuckin’ roof be

[Hook (x2)]
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)

[Verse 3]
Wait a God damn second
I’m trippin’ balls, David Beckham
Will fall cause shit’s goin’ down
Just like Rodney King’s swimmin’ lessons
Now me and Justin smoke sherm and been talkin’ ’bout freein’ perm
And purchasin’ weapons namin’ them and aim them in One Direction
(Wait a minute)
It sounds like midgets in a God damn speaker
Every time you play this shit loud
But that’s just me tryin’ to get milk now
Instead of grunts from a God damn cow
Hit me on my beeper while Captain Hook sucks my Peter
Pan camera, repeat procedure
And when the beat drops, have a God damn seizure

[Hook (x4)]
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, Golf Wang
Fuck that, (Golf Wang!)

[Outro]
You remind me of my bimmer
A lot of trunk space, the perfect two seater
And you got a lot of drive I’m tryin’ to keep her
But it’s not a lot of miles on ya meter

You remind me of my bimmer
See your ignition, baby girl I’m tryin’ to key up
And your headlights are off I’m tryin’ to see ’em
But it’s not a lot of miles on ya meter
So let me start it up, and smash it

Pop some Tame Impala, your man got a lame impala
(And it’s dark outside)
And I’m sharin’ slurpies and you ain’t even begin to swallow
(Oooooo)
You’re fuckin’ nuts, brim top we coupled up
Run my fingers through ’em as you wax and buff my muffler
Cause I fingered you, you think a fuckin’ ring is comin’ up?
(Oooooo)
Maybe I don’t know I think you’re chilled
(Ride for)
Ridin’ on my pegs, my back against ya legs
And a seatbelt is needed if I get between ’em, yea

You remind me of my
Cut it out!