Money Bags

Bm Em Em Bm
Bm Em Em
              Bm
Is this guy serious?
Bm          Em          Em    Bm
Is this guy serious or what?

[Chorus]
Bm     Em             Bm        
Twenty bands, twenty bands, 
     Bm
twenty bands
Em                    Bm
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty 
bands
Em                   Bm
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty 
bands
 D      Em             Bm
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty 
bands
Em                 Bm
Let it out, let it out, let it out

[Verse]
Em                            Bm
I foresee the jealousy all in your 
eyes for sure
Em                                
Sure, they don't want to beef with
      Bm
 my physique or my .44
      Em                 Bm   
Sure, life is sweet, I'm by the 
                          Em
beach, sand all on the feet
By the seat, the time we meet, we'll
  Bm
 leave em' by the shore
      Em              Bm          
Sure, pop a bean em' right to 
            Em
sleep sheets of my decor
                           Bm    
With privacy, she grind on me and 
               Em
sweep on my rapport, whore
Bm                                
Drama by the front door, pushing 
        Em
out the back door
Em                       Bm
Trapping out the bando, leave em' by
 the trap door
Em          Bm
Money bags, money bags
      Em                   Bm
Ten bands, ten bands, ten bands (ten
 bands)
          Em                    
Drop the babies in the car seat, 
       Bm
must be the Courvoisier
    Em                Bm
Tap on your boussie, valeting 
Cartier
Em                     Bm
Car keys to the Marcielago and 
Courtier
          Em                       
Wake up thankful everyday, feel 
    Bm
like Sydney Portier
    Em
Ayy ayy, soundbite, soundbite, woo
Bm                          Em
Cheat code, cheat code, L1, down, 
right
            Bm
Damn right, damn right
The nigga who your sound like, sound
 like
Em
Demons fucking up my focus
 Bm   D         Em
Head vultures, precious death, death
 rows
                      Bm
Pockets full of dead folks
       Em                   Bm
Prada soles full of dead roaches
         Em
And some cud I stepped on
        Em
Waiting for her to get left
        Bm           G            
On the same place, dead bodies get
  Em
 left on
                     G
But woke niggas get slept on
                  Em
Broke niggas get flexed on
                       Bm
I really wish she had less on
G                        Em
I might fuck her with a dress on
            G
Scratching on me with her breasts on
Bm                           Em
We ain't stopping til' the next song
 Em             Bm               Em
Next song, next song, next song

[Outro: Lil Yacthy]
Bm Em Em Bm
Bm Em
      Em        Bm
Ten bands, ten bands
Em                 Bm   Em
Money bags, money bags
       Bm               Em
Money bags, money bags
      Bm                Em
Ten bands, ten bands
      Bm                Em
Ten bands, ten bands
Bm                                Em
Ricky Owens on me look like Dom Pér
     Bm                          
St. Laurents on me, I don't wear 
Em
Vans