Could tie my right hand man, and put him some place
Tomorrow I'll maybe walk around the yard
Sat in a truck, it carries convicts
A little place just off the coast of France
Stacked in the back, the good life surrounds me
Everyday, I think of money
Everyday, I think of running
Yesterday I bought my beach house
My hands are bound, to the seat by hand-cuffs
Then I'd ditch the truck and I'd buy a new face
Everyday, I think of money
Can't buy you a love, can't give you a soul
Everyday, I think of some way
Can pick you up, can down you low
Can drag you out of the hole
That you dug yourself, out of, again
Everyday, I think of money
I love my truck, I love my family
Or paint in my cell and hate imprisonment
