Money Grip - Lee Scott

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