Bun B - Countin' Money (feat. Gucci Mane & Yo Gotti) (2010)

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Bun B - Countin' Money (feat. Gucci Mane & Yo Gotti) lyrics


Fuck a rubber band a nigga need a buncha birds [x4]
Yo, it’s Gucci, brrrr, R.I.P. Pimp C mane, brrrr
(This that straight my, straight my)

Money all day, count money all day
Count money all day, count money all, money all
Count money all day, count money all day, count money all
Money all, money all, money all day

Say mane, no matta where I go, no matter what I do
If chillin’ with’ myself, or ballin’ with’ my crew
The skies is lookin’ cloudy or Bahama water blue
I got that money on my mind, so tell me what it do
And if you be like me, then you already knew it
We goin’ for the money then we goin’ right through it
Take it to the table baby, chop it up and screw it
‘Cause it ain’t nothin’ to it where come from, but to do it
We get it in our hands, and then it go right through the fingas
We spent it on the system in a fresh set of swangas
We pop a couple tags, put some fresh up on the hangas
That everyday struggle and can’t NAME A nigga change us
Believe that I was famous ‘fore I ever did a song
Believe I had a poppin’ ‘fore a label put me on
It’s 2010 and I ain’t seein’ nothin’ wrong
But niggas countin’ money all day fuckin’ long


Money totin’, pistol carrying young nigga thugged out
Very first song I ever dropped was in a drug house
Razor blades, sandwich bags, Louis shoes, stoopid swag
Rubberbands, duffle bags, small bills, trash bags
AH chain on my neck, you know that cost stoopid cash
Maserati for the wash, that’s that foolish cash
Penitentiary chances, ‘6’s on a muscle car
Bun told me keep it real and watch it take me far
My money don’t fold, this money here
I ain’t make it for no hoes, I ain’t get this off of shows
Talk money all day, count money all night
Trust no one with’ my paper, so I count my paper twice
I be lonely with’ out my paper, so I sleep with’ it at night
And I wake up to my paper so I start my day off right
They call me Cocaine Gotti, MR. money over bitches
Mr. Everything White, he be always in the kitchen

It’s me Gucci
I’m the shit bitch you smell me
Ain’t no need to check ya sneakers
Three bricks, plus a split with’ me, then bitch you got a hit
Big money on my leisure, pop bottles with’ top models
With’ my goons in Puerto Rico, yo’ girlfriend I’m a freak her
Believe me I’m a giant, leave it to the lemurs[? ]
I only see my paper plus my cojan on the Sanyo
The hottest rapper that you know, people look like Cujo (Gucci)
I get a thousand million ties and sold your guys for uno
So tune into East Atlanta, please don’t change the channel ma
Roll the windows down back up
In my Phantom show my automa
Hangin’ out my partner, naw
Don’t you want this autograph?
Thinkin’ that you angry ’cause my neck look like the Mardi Gras


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