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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Rudimental
Rudimental
Performer
MORGAN
MORGAN
Vocals
Amir Amor
Amir Amor
Guitar
Kesi Dryden
Kesi Dryden
Programming
Leon Rolle
Leon Rolle
Percussion
Piers Aggett
Piers Aggett
Synthesiser
Sam Knowles
Sam Knowles
Programming
Taurean John Antoine-Chagar
Taurean John Antoine-Chagar
Saxophone
Mark Crown
Mark Crown
Trumpet
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
MORGAN
MORGAN
Composer
Jasper Lee Harris
Jasper Lee Harris
Composer
Isaac Sakima
Isaac Sakima
Songwriter
Oliver Rodigan
Oliver Rodigan
Composer
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Rudimental
Rudimental
Producer
Jasper Harris
Jasper Harris
Additional Producer
Amir Amor
Amir Amor
Producer
Kesi Dryden
Kesi Dryden
Producer
Leon Rolle
Leon Rolle
Producer
Piers Aggett
Piers Aggett
Producer
Conor Bellis
Conor Bellis
Engineer
Kevin Grainger
Kevin Grainger
Mastering Engineer
Greg Freeman
Greg Freeman
Mixing Engineer
Cadenza
Cadenza
Producer
Karma Kid
Karma Kid
Producer

Lyrics

I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted, uh I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted You can pop bottles if you want Givin' off charm, hangin' bitches from your arm So you think you've got style, but you don't You're not comin' in, even with your Gucci coat I'm a-lookin' at the ice on your throat Talkin' so big, boy, I hope you don't choke And you got a little somethin' on your nose You ain't comin' in, it's a broke-free zone Yeah, I know you're leasing your Lambo Arms so jacked like you're Rambo Yeah, I know you never seen a bankroll (ah, ah) Yeah, I know you're leasing your iPhone, yeah Play the bad boy, but you're Santo, yeah Really think you're Rocky, but you're Fat Joe Scaramouche, do the Mitch fantango I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted, uh I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted What you gon' do with these? Double digits, six figures, ice earrings What you gon' do with these? See me in my story in my villa, uh (uh, yeah) I be by the cupboard with the liquor, uh (uh, yeah) Queen of the desert like Priscilla, uh (uh, uh) No pre-game, no mixer, yeah Did your mama tell you all the dos and don'ts? It's a girls night, shoulda stayed at home Man, I could really do without your cheap cologne You could empty out a room with your pheromones Did your mama tell you all the dos and don'ts? You can't even touch me in my Saint Laurent Tryna catch a bag, but you can't get stoned Brag about your boys, but you're all alone I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted, uh I'm your motherfuckin' hostess Hot Benz, all tens, got the most-est Raise a motherfuckin' flute for the toast, yeah Locked in, tell your friends where we posted What you gon' do with these? Double digits, six figures, ice earrings What you gon' do?
Writer(s): Oliver Sebastian Rodigan, Morgan Connie Smith, Jasper Lee Harris, Isaac Sakima Quinn Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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