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prod - moneybaggs lyrics

aye yo
money bands in the tummy bag
f-nny pack, but not enough room for both
that’s why i got my buddy packed
funny -ss n-ggas wanna toke
make them run it back
do the running man double speed
hummer fast, cut his -ss if he’s tryna throw his f-cking hands n-gga
(come here you f-cking b-tch) (aah oh my gosh)
see i’m the type to walk in the club with more money than what i came with
i came with my main hoe, n-gga you came with a lame b-tch
you came with the same gimmick you said you changed but you ain’t switch
lame in your dna stems, but go ahead, and be great. sh-t
y’all n-ggas wanna claim rich (lame b-tch)
swear to god it don’t make sense (it don’t)
like don’t you owe n-ggas money, man (broke)
they said you don’t make sense (at all)
they said you don’t make bands (nah)
they called you a fake b-tch (b-tch)
they said when they see you, they about to run your pockets like it’s 8th grade gym (aah)
n-ggas always wanna clown my grind like stop that you sound slow (dummy)
how the f-ck you gon’ clown my music with a podcast on the low(wow)
y’all mad that you hot -ss and my song tracks sound dope (b-tch)
y’all mad that my sh-t flames, and y’all -ss don’t want smoke

[chorus]
i don’t care about nothing else but tryna make this money stack
past hoes on dummy stuff, its funny ’cause they want me back
nah you want this money bag, yo, hoe get off my sack
b-tch you better get yo f-cking money bags from the trap
i don’t care about nothing else but tryna make this money stack
past hoes on dummy stuff, its funny ’cause they want me back
nah you want this money bag, yo, hoe get off my sack
b-tch you better get yo f-cking money bags from the trap

they say where the compet-tion at at
like b-tch i don’t see no one
i don’t fire shots, i seize your guns
i seen the beef you need for funds to eat your lunch
and i see you, can you see me
you seen a star, i see my sons
my s-m-n bust, result, don’t ask me for nothing
i won’t meet no one unless we talking ’bout motherf-cking green or some
i don’t greet you bums
i graze, slide past like grease or some
her t-tties out like greece or some
you have threesomes, i have three and some
you must be sh-lled to think she’d spit my seed or some
she seen the stick and beat like drums
i whip the automatic like a stick and speed and stuff
you bump my sh-t until the speaker bust
so suck my meat until i feed you nuts (b-tch)
it’s silence till i speak and stuff
it’s violence till i cease fire and relieve the drum
leave a b-tch, invite her friend
to see her come and go
these f-cking hoes will eat the sausage p-n-s like it’s pizza crusts
you people better never hit my ig dm tryna meet and f-ck
or i’ma have you freaking sl-ts exposed
i don’t want the buns, i want the f-cking dough
i need bands, you need some love, aye
i need beats, you need a gun, aye
you see ops and freaking run away
i read checks, you read me up, aye
you see threats, i see a chump, aye
you no shooter, you a pump fake
i say now, you say some day
you mad and i don’t give a f-ck, aye

[chorus]
i don’t care about nothing else but tryna make this money stack
past hoes on dummy stuff, its funny ’cause they want me back
nah you want this money bag, yo, hoe get off my sack
b-tch you better get yo f-cking money bags from the trap
i don’t care about nothing else but tryna make this money stack (nah i don’t)
past hoes on dummy stuff, its funny ’cause they want me back
nah you want this money bag, yo, hoe get off my sack
b-tch you better get yo f-cking money bags from the trap, b-tch

- prod lyrics

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