Credits
PERFORMING ARTISTS
Kodak Black
Vocals
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Bill K. Kapri
Songwriter
Ian Mckee
Songwriter
Russell Pochop
Songwriter
Derek Garcia
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Ian Mckee
Producer
Derek Garcia
Mixing Engineer
Samuel Berler
Assistant Engineer
Chris Athens
Mastering Engineer
RBP
Producer
Kuya
Producer
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
I don't need nobody sayin' I went and changed on them
You know the real me, you know all the pain I hold in
You actin' like I didn't love you better than him
Bitch, you actin' like I didn't treat you better
I put double G's on your sweater
Every time you called me, it's whatever
Your first flight, it was private, private jet
I had you ridin' around, goin' Scotty
And I don't like to say what I did for nobody
But I put them wings on your jeans like you flyin'
How you finna turn on your **** overnight?
When them bitches wasn't fuckin' with you, baby, I was ridin'
When them **** wasn't fuckin' with you ****, I was slidin'
Steppin' on these **** when these **** be out of line
I see where your head at, now you simple-minded
Why you even think like that? You ****'s biased
Why you got to lie?
Bitch, I had you drippin', custom linen, ain't no vinyl
****, I had you Christian Louboutins, draped in designer
Stacked me a couple million, I ain't switch up on you either
This that fire
All them **** was breakin' your heart, lil' bitch, I stayed beside you
I don't wanna snipe him
Once I got that money, I turned around and went and signed you
[Verse 2]
Oh, I know you runnin' through that fire every day
Think your time'll get expired any day
I know you runnin' with that fire every day
Any **** come and try you, let it spray
I know you runnin' through that fire every day
Think your time'll get expired any day
I know you runnin' with that fire every day
Any **** come and try you, let it spray
I know you runnin' through that fire
You think your time'll get expired, ayy
I know you runnin' with that fire, yeah
Any **** come and try you, let it spray
Written by: Bill K. Kapri, Derek Garcia, Ian Mckee, Russell Pochop