Money Grip

[Verse 1] 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... [Chorus] 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 [Verse 2] (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 [Chorus] 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