Music Video

Featured In

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Trippie Redd
Trippie Redd
Vocals
Igor Mamet
Igor Mamet
Programming
James Bentley
James Bentley
Programming
Cash Cobain
Cash Cobain
Programming
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Igor Mamet
Igor Mamet
Songwriter
Michael Lamar White II
Michael Lamar White II
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Igor Mamet
Igor Mamet
Mixing Engineer
James Bentley
James Bentley
Producer
Cash Cobain
Cash Cobain
Producer

Lyrics

I used to think about immature things You know, like, "Do you love me? Do you want me? Are you gonna call me like you said you would? Is this really your real phone number?" (And this beat from Cash, not from YouTube) Yeah, you see-through Bite from a snake, lethal Woke up rockin' Evisu If you don't wanna stay, why keep you? In the rain where I leave you You ain't gang, why would I piece you? Like, what's up? More money, more love AP, two-tone I was outside with that chrome Maybach ready to go Look at my neck, it's covered in stones Look at my yard, it's covered in bones King of the hill All of my family is royalty, nigga, you better kneel Don't gotta talk 'bout respect in this shit, you know the real Don't gotta talk 'bout my blessings and shit, you know the real I don't want that fake love, it ain't real It ain't much to say, love, it's 2:00 a.m. I'm crazy 'bout your love Go over and above You know I'm pourin' up, smokin' on that gas I'm a demon in the nighttime, leave him in the past When I fuck that bitch, she call me, "Dad" She say that's the best love that she ever had Shit, you gotta get in your bag You gotta get to the cash, you gotta get it and digital dash Steppin' on shit, keep a Glock and mask Turnin' your plaid tie-dye Throwin' up bands in G5 Double C bag on T-Y Don't wanna see him reachin' It's late night and we creepin' This her class, but I teach her I don't give a shit about Oxford Better go get you a doctor Better go get you a Perc' That boy in pain, he hurt Leave that lil' bitch in the dirt Put the lil' bitch on a shirt Candlelight shit, fly high R.I.P. Spook, R.I.P. 9 See a opp, then drop me the dime We ain't worried 'bout shit or time Leave that boy stinkin', hard time Psycho, out of my mind I think I'm Picasso, I'm paintin' your ride, bah Red rum, hundred shots, pussy, you're done Run up the bread, it was crumbs Now I got a damn green thumb Now I got a pair of green lungs My mama told me the devil a liar My auntie in here speakin' tongues I'll get to the top, I'ma lunge I know I'm the shit, but they'll never plunge My Draco got kick, so you better run I'm takin' a pic with my bitch in the sun, yeah That boy Michael Vick, that boy like to run I'm out with the gang, no clique, no squad You know we the gang, you know we the mob
Writer(s): Michael Lamar White Ii, Igor Mamet Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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