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letra de beer money - mr. wrong

(in my case, you know i-i hate to advocate drugs or liquor, violence, insanity to anyone, but in my case it’s worked)

(talking)

half full? my gl-ss is empty
i crack a bevvy then accidentally make a cl-ssic lp
on the type of sh-t i’ll swear should have made my fans resent me
i’m so amazing, even my whackest tracks are heavy
you probably think i deserve an oscar
stumbling, yet i stand with perfect posture when i’m serving vodka
drinking to my health
i ignore the only opinion that matters
’cause i don’t even listen to myself
a blessed punk, i drink whatever gets me drunk
cherry blunt, serial-k!lling tens of skunk
[?]
simultaneously open holes and cans of beck’s on my head for fun
when this record’s done, i’ll be getting smashed
celebrating cause i shifted 2 copies by the second month
(something something)
i’m still obsessed with hate, in a depressive state
when i clock an empty crate, and i can’t get served
everything aged except my face
got kb, now i’m slamming heads in heaven’s gate
f-ck a second take, this is it
middle finger stiff to drinking cris
8’o’clock i’m in the cypher spitting cider phlegm
by 5 to 10, i’m on my bill drinking jack daniel’s in the lion’s den
the inner me is ugly
caught with my hand inside your mother’s cookie jar, tryna find my beer money
off my face like this red pattern on my blood-smeared hoody
n-body that thinks clear trusts me
appear clumsy, knocking drinks over, and that’s when i’m still sober
who believes ya stuttering every word?
throwing up a litre of something that smells like turps
learn my lesson, and drink another to quench my thirst
when the time comes, i’ll be 9 cups dry, drunk, buzzing off h-ll on earth

(talking)

- mr wrong

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