[Chorus: Jmo Let Em Know]
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth

[Verse 1: Jmo Let Em Know]
My homie got some packs, he said, “Jmo, can you please off 'em”
I be flyin' through these packs like a trapeze artist
Shit, I’m a trapeze artist
I record in a morgue filling all of these coffins
It ain't carona that got me coughing
I don’t be rappin too much, it's the weed talkin'
Glock barkin' loud, and it's gonna bite a piece off him
If I take you to my plug I'm gonna need a piece off it
Smokin' DMT, at the rave, it got me sleep walkin'
And my team gotta a lotta weapons, like the Chiefs' offence
Take your bitch to my bed, then we fuck the sheets off it
All you you rappers in my city wack, but I don't speak on it
I'm not on not ya album 'cause you won't go hard like me on it
Your bitch love my dick, the way she freak on it
Leak on it, every day of the fuckin' week on it
We on it, gettin' to the money, gotta keep on it
[Chorus: Jmo Let Em Know]
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth

[Verse 2: 38 Spesh]
I moved on to enourmous things
Life’s gorgeous, nothin' more important that a supportive team
I’m with a whore named Jenine, 'bout to quarantine
I smoke so much weed, my piss forest-green
Y’all really admire foreign things, then adore me
I’m royalty, got the blood of a Moorish king
I sold crack to support a dream
Before rap, n***a, I was on tour with the fiends, huh
Now I’m sippin on imported scotch
Shit cost more that a pair of Jordans when I pour a shot
You n***as ballin' or not? Got a grandfather clock
In my crib that cost more than your watch, n***a
I put a shot in your boss' head
I got forty-nine more, these bullets is gettin' force fed
All my hater better off dead
Jealousy breed hate, these n***a runnin' round [?]
[Chorus: Jmo Let Em Know]
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth
Countin' up this bread in my Greatful Deads
Countin' up this loot in my Gucci boots
Countin up this bread, grateful I’m not dead
If ain't gettin' money then I’m in the booth

[Verse 3: Curren$y]
Countin' up bread in my Infra Reds
Bettin' on the point spread, higher than a ledge
Jammin' Sister Sledge in my Chevy sled
[?], if you scared, homie, fake dead
You heard what I said, then rewind it and replay it
I pulled up shit so pricey, they scared to valet it
They say, “park it yourself, you pulled up way too major”
I made the news, not for crime, but makin' moves with the mayor
Weeks later I'm in Oakland, Fab had loaned me his scraper
Back in New Orleans, hit Detroit jammin' Ohio Players
Top down, smokin' joints on my way to mo' paper
Decimal points and commas, homie, that’s what separate us
Fool tore the script easy, like it was perforated
Them suckas hate it, it was personal and premeditated
Upstair elevate it, cement Jordan-fours
And my Plastation 5 on my marble floor, I’m high