Lyrics Money Grip - Lee Scott

Money Grip

Money doesn’t buy happiness, they said
Fully entertained with the money and the fame
How does one acquire a Hummer and a chain?
On the double, it’s a pain bunking on the train
Hurrying and complaining in a hoodie in the rain
You think you know him, but you struggle with a name
Gatecrash your party, fucking with the gain
I’m on the uninvited guest list
I get pissed and impress chicks
Sagging on the couch getting pally with an ounce
A spliff pirouetted through the air and landed in me mouth
I’m a hell of a guy getting heavenly high
I was fuckin' MILF’s pre-American pie
(Why?) Cause I’m ahead of me time
Wishing you merry Christmas at the end of July
Fly brick pelican fly, I look you dead in the eye
Then I sincerely tell you a lie but for your own good
Like I don’t know why you’ve got no bud
You said it was the bomb but the shit was a dud
Now give me room so the membrane can hang
Rolling past showing class, in Hell’s Angels slang
You’re not a son of a bitch you’re just a bitch
I’m on that freshly pressed money shit
I’m too legit but I quit giving a fuck at six
Or something it’s…
That freshly pressed money shit
No added preservatives, funk butter shit
This is my mic you’re not touchin' it
I lay it all out on the table like just look at it
You love this shit, that freshly pressed money shit
No added preservatives, funk butter shit
This is my mic you’re not touchin' it
I lay it all out on the table like just look at it
(Go Ed) Take a good look at it, study it
Until you understand you couldn’t fuck with it
Impressing the honey dip, twenty quid in me money grip
Everything seems strange, like I’m off me head on 'cid
Fuck you and whoever the hell you with
You need to chill before you let off some steam but like Bennett did
These clowns are too serious
I’m timeless, while they argue over who’s year it is
I’m in the corner looking odd
I can’t figure out who’s who in the selfie I took with God
I’d probably make a great king, women tell me the same thing
I make seem effortless but always do a thorough job
Shut your gob, don’t bite the hand controlling ye'
I’m the puppet master standing over ye'
I’m on top of the world with acrophobia
Your Ma said knock you out
I’m that cool daddy Boney M. was going on about
Rappers you are all me sons, but you’ve done me proud
Bumpin' «No Guns Allowed» on the bus aloud
Like you’ve been a lovely crowd
But it’s time for me to do one so I get off at the next stop
Even though it’s not mine, whistling like nothing happened
The thing’s cold sagging get’s me into
I don’t need to rap about shit I’ve never been through
I woke up in a melting igloo in the desert with two fly honeys
A bag of freshly pressed money and some really expensive Sunny’s
The only thing that’s left to say is just, jeez
That freshly pressed money shit
No added preservatives, funk butter shit
This is my mic you’re not touchin' it
I lay it all out on the table like just look at it
You love this shit, that freshly pressed money shit
No added preservatives, funk butter shit
This is my mic you’re not touchin' it
I lay it all out on the table like just look at it