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