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Get Money
French Montana, Max B, Alpac
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๐ฌ๐ง English ยท Original
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Lyrics
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Translation
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Get money, get money, get-get-get money, get money, get
Get money, get money, get money
Evil Empire gangsters, they'll eat your
Lunch and rental your school clothes
Get money, get money, get money, get money, get money, get-get-get
White tee and pit paps and construction Timbos
Al Gotti chase dough, money over bimbos
Posted on the block and I'm watching out for cop cars
Slinking with the lil' homies, life of a trap star
Got crack, got dust, got dope, got weed
If you want a trick dog, my lil' homie got it
It's the first of the month, so you know I'm breaking night
Getting green, black music, no respect for my wife
Blowing piff in the park, dog, in broad day
Fiend told me he need ten, meet me in the hallway
Niggas come through here fronting and we ready to pop off
And we got big guns that'll clear the block off
The strip is hotter than ever, TNT's watching us
Across the street in the P's crew them binoculars
Ain't no place in the world like 40 and from Lennox
Get dope, fuck hoes and always ready to get it
Messiah ain't a hustler, what the hell you trying to tell me?
'Cause I won't cop that bullshit you trying to sell me
Messiah ain't a hustler, you's a motherfucking liar
Pull that nigga out, I set that bitch nigga on fire
Pat that nigga down, I don't trust him, he probably wired
Lose your muscle baby, you dealing with the supplier
I don't trust niggas far as I can throw 'em
And I don't serve dust to niggas only if I know 'em
These bitches wanna know who the fuck is Fergie
When he get the money to cop him a Maserati
I laugh and said, "Mami, I got them birdies"
Not to mention my henchman got money to be the body
Money ain't a thing, big cars and the bling
Half of you rappers got more of a knife diamonds in your chains
A-Swing rich from the hoopty to the six
See they love them Brooklyn don, the blunts and the Crips
I'm Illmatic like Nas when he first dropped
The summer of '99, I took over my own block
Throw some cold water on it, let that thing rock up
Bagging fifty-eight slims to get your guap up
Niggas talk money, but your boy walk money
Leave the table for the block smelling like dope dummy
Bosses on the board and self bosses get an ounce
All that Rick Ross shit get you punched in your mouth
A-B the Truth, he really in the street
The only Brooklyn nigga that get money with Dame Grease
Yeah, stand up Brooklyn
Yeah, yo
I'm a super duper hustler, all you rappers customers
Oh you need a double swag, all I got is forty bags
Fifty of the blow and hundreds of the bounce
You a hustler, hustle then, go on get the ounce
Take me home, break me down, look inside, what you found?
The purest of pure, that double money for sure
Lennox Ave baby been getting money for years
I kick shit into gear, change niggas career
For real, niggas catch a chill when they see me
Ding, ding, ding, that thing come in 3D
A bloody valentine, you know that it's hammer time
I'm on the street, that's how I handle mine
It's Mr. Bird
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