Released: July 9, 2019

Featuring: French Montana

Songwriter: Max B

Producer: Paul Couture

[Intro]
Couture

[Verse 1: Max B]
Anybody can get it (Yeah), nobody exempt (Yeah)
All my niggas is rich but nobody content
All my niggas is thorough (Yeah), nobody pretends (Yeah)
Don't trust them bitches, nobody your friends
You see I married the streets but fell in love with the music
Treated my bitch like shit, then she got her retribution
See I believe in the justice (C'mon), restitution
Poo got a life with the 30, minus the execution
They gave me 75, got it chopped to a 20
Then got it down to a dozen, nigga, I'm good with the money
Bigga, you good with the bitches, got a way with the ladies
Couple steaks on the grill, I spend a day with the babies
I dipped my toes in the pool, tell him smokin' ain't cool
No playin' hooky today, you fuckers is goin' to school
Never needed the bitch (Never), cheddar cheese in my grits
That wasn't positive music, nigga, neither is this, yeah

[Chorus: Max B & French Montana]
I'm super bad (Super bad), super bad
Where I'm from, you niggas get murdered (Yeah), super fast
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Before they rendered the verdict (Yeah), I blew a bag
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Told 'em 'fore he went on a lick (Yeah), use a mask
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Fifty million dollars in chips (Montana), do the math

[Verse 2: French Montana]
Super bad (Super bad), super bad
Where I'm from, all we promised a suit and tag (Suit and tag)
Super bad (Super bad), super bad (Super bad)
Where I'm from, we ain't trippin', all we do is laugh
Open your eyes, bring the oohs and the ahs
It's the more you got, halves to even the odds
My bitch was a demon, had me poppin' pills, leanin'
Had my dope subpoenaed, made it through the cracks like a genius
Couldn't see Chinx in a box, and they gave Max 7-5
Journey since that genocide, then pull us back to the traps
Why you think I'm drinkin', huh? My dope said, "Don't tweak"
'Cause I ain't had no shoes, but he ain't had no feet
They called it a dream, I called it a plan
I called it a theme, they called it a scam
My vision way clearer than my VVS diamond link
Baby, come float the boat, but don't let it sink
You don't know the math, a whole different shoe
And fuck about the past, it ain't nothin' new

[Chorus: Max B]
I'm super bad (Super bad), super bad
Where I'm from, you niggas get murdered (Yeah), super fast
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Before they rendered the verdict (Yeah), I blew a bag
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Told him 'fore he went on a lick (Yeah), use a mask
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Fifty million dollars in chips, do the math

[Verse 3: Max B]
Yeah, do or die (Do or die), suit and tie (Yeah)
Thousand dollar shoes, Louis on the side
Lookin' good on the plane, get you good if you blink
All my niggas, they smoke like a woman that drink
Baby, come bring me some B&B, run it like DMC
Eloquent music genius, don't fuck with that EMG
No tippin' around the spot, they sniffin' around, it's hot
The chopper, it got a scope, hit you from down the block
Rock paper scissors, break they heart, play the bitches
Got a game at the Garden, Knicks tonight, they play the Clippers
I can eat about seven dogs (Yeah), do maybe seven bids (Yeah)
Been down the hard road, you maybe never, kid
Came at you motherfuckers with all that I could
Four different babies, four different women and all of 'em good (All of 'em)
Where I'm from only few can last, niggas'll shoot your ass
My brothers, my cousins, even my mother, she super bad, yeah

[Chorus: Max B]
I'm super bad (Super bad), super bad
Where I'm from, you niggas get murdered (Yeah), super fast
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Before they rendered the verdict (Yeah), I blew a bag
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Told him 'fore he went on a lick (Yeah), use a mask
Yeah, I'm super bad, super bad, super bad
Fifty million dollars in chips, do the math

[Outro: Max B]
Montana, what's good?
I see you, yeah
Motherfucker super bad
Bustdown Biggavell, Holy Couture
Motherfucker super bad
Yeah, Negro Spirituals, baby
Motherfucker super bad
Ain't nothin' spiritual about it
We ride
Motherfucker super bad

Max B

Wavy!

In the words of Roc

As far as his melodies… they were second to none as far as I was concerned. In my opinion, he was the street version of what Drake is—the fans can have Drake, but the streets have Max.