lirik lagu note to self – helper
[intro: helper]
(lil’ b*tch, wake up and go)
(lil’ b*tch, wake up and go)
(the b*tches come and go)
(your pockets fat or no?)
(lil’ b*tch, wake up and go)
(lil’ b*tch, wake up and go)
(lil’ b*tch, wake up and go)
(your pockets fat or no?)
[chorus: helper]
lil’ b*tch
he pockets broke
you’re fatter than nasa, but you can not float
like me, me, me, me, yeah
yeah, you got all your sh*t for free man
switched from reeboks to a vans fan
yeah, they’re both still ass to me
huh, and my verses suck
but i don’t care
i don’t care
[post*chorus: helper]
if you got a problem with me, then just sort it out
boy got a lobotomy, he’s just now finding out
you is a b*tch, boy
you always the bottom of me
so suck my d*ck boy
brodie got the tremors in his knees
[verse 1: helper]
i’m the purr
i’m the cats, meow
how the opps gon’ catch me now, yeah
we doin’ crimes
we do ’em fast
askin’ me questions, i don’t understand
huh, they gon’ find out when i’m dead
boy
let that sh*t percolate
this ones for your face
we gon’ blow your brains out
we gon’ paint the sp*ce
and i’m gonna keep my head down
twin pistols on the bed now
lil’ b*tch, she wanna slide the rizz down low
too bad, i’m sippin’ green, it’s still h*ll no
[verse 2: aftrr]
yeah, huh
i don’t got no jersey
but my money ball like ai
off a perky, feelin so fly
uh, yeah
i got a b*tch and my b*tch is the best
always standing out ’cause i’m not like the rest
if i’m alive, then i am the best
that boy he lyin’
he don’t make money, he trappin’ off two bands off of his parents
she wanna ride
bring your hoe back to my crib and we goin’ so fast, mclaren
i was so used to not having sh*t
now i just made ten bands today, b*tch
and i feel like jumpman, got on new kicks
faygo i’m sippin’, got hits on hits
yeah
ten in my body
feel like a zombie
walk in the club and they saw me
she wanna f*ck off the molly, yeah
skrrt in that mazi
missin’ that ‘tuss in my cup, sickboyrari
she tryna call me
but that girl way too bad, she gon’ play me like atari
pots and pans, i’m movin’ again
you got no motion, you got no plans
smokin’ exotic straight from j*pan
talkin that toxic, off of a ten
up off auto no pilot, like tesla
my choppa stutter, beretta
copy me, but you can’t keep up
off of the ice, might t up
[chorus: helper]
lil’ b*tch
he pockets broke
you’re fatter than nasa, but you can not float
like me, me, me, me, yeah
yeah, you got all your sh*t for free man
switched from reeboks to a vans fan
yeah, they’re both still ass to me
huh, and my verses suck
but i don’t care
i don’t care
[post*chorus: helper]
if you got a problem with me, then just sort it out
boy got a lobotomy, he’s just now finding out
you is a b*tch, boy
you always the bottom of me
so suck my d*ck boy
brodie got the tremors in his knees
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