Brooklyn Funk Essentials I Got Cash Lyrics

I got cash in f*ck you quantities
Now what?
That makes you uncomfortable?
f*ck you and the Range Rover you drove in on

f*ck your Saab convertable
And f*ck your twice-weekly trips to the analyst
Stupid motha f*ck

f*ck the Hamptons
The fly-infested south of France
I'm paid asshole,
I got more cash than God can count
so why don't you just.... die?

Choke to death on your damn designer bagel from
Balducci's
Low cholesterol, naturally

f*ck your big ol' Sunday New York Times
f*ck the Wall Street Journal
And Newsweek
And the lot
Including Nation, Village Voice, Guardian and the rest
Stupid set of privileged motherf*ckers
Think it's fashionable to have an alternative view

An alternative view

And f*ck, if you can
Your pencil-thin, Evian-drinking, calorie-counting,
caffeine-limiting, sodium-sparing, Nutrasweet-
sweetening, rear-view-mirror-preening, carrot-nibbling bunny

Go drown in a lake of Diet Coke, f*cker

I got cash, what else matters?

I got cash

Slave

f*ck your fencing and screw your squash, yo
Piss on your polo and your Pavarotti,
f*ck all that shit you call music and pretend to enjoy

I got cash,
Mega cash,
I'm happy with that,
Oh go and sit on your ski rug
Money talks you little p*ssy

You let your politically-correct pals know,
That I think you're a dick also.
Neutered asshole.

And your idea of multiculturalism:
Japanese resturant on Monday,
Indian on Tuesday,
And on Wednesday, Caribbean,
Not too spicy please.

Well
I got stash on stash and it ain't novo cash.
Money's in my family for generations.
My great-, great-, great-grandfather made the bag,
Selling European slaves in Africa

I got cash motherf*cker,
And you can't tell whether or not I'm joking, can you?
Dumb f*ck.

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