Lyrics:

I got cash in fuck you quantities
Know what?
That makes you uncomfortable?
Fuck you and the Range Rover you drove in on

Fuck your Saab convertable
And fuck your twice weekly trips to the analyst
Stupid mutha fuck

Fuck 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

Fuck your big ol' Sunday New York Times
Fuck the Wall Street Journal
And News Week
And the lot
Including Nation, Village Voice, Guardian and the rest
Stupid set of priviliged mutha fuckers
Think its fashionable to have an alternative view

An alternative view

And fuck, if you can
Your pencil thin, Evian drinking, calorie counting, caffiene limiting, sodium spearing, nutrasweet sweetening, read view mirror preening, carrot nibbling bunny

Go drown in a lake of Diet Coke, fucker

I got cash, what else matters?

I got cash

Slave

Fuck your fencing and screw your squash
Piss on your Paulo and your Pavarotti
Fuck 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 pussy

You let your politically correct pals know
That i think you're a dick also
You dirty asshole

And your idea of multiculturalism
Japanese resturant on Monday
Indian on tuesday
And on Wednesday, Caribbean
Not to spicy please

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

I got cash mutha fuckah
And you can't tell whether or not I'm joking, can you?
Dumb fuck