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Soul Child
by
Potter Payper
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Lyrics
Getting money’s my prerogative Gotta go out of my way to stay positive When my lifestyle’s the opposite Rich or poor, check the deficit, it’s obvious When I die, who am I, am I anonymous? My mom and dad were just some foreigners Tryna make it in this ghetto metropolis I was broke when I was young it hurt my confidence Now I get money, free money in my ambience Now I’m Potter Payper with an audience I smoke weed till I look a little Orient Where I’m from they let the Mac fly no Delorean Clips in the side of the scorpion I got brothers who deal in extortion Only real life G’s in the forum Jailhouse getting packs like a mormon Devil want my soul, put 7 in my pole, 63 in my bowl, got a deal on the box like Noel Edmonds Bare gun smoke for the tension Still middle finger to the Trenton Money have to lengthen, deen have to strengthen Coke in the pot still dancing like Brendan No gyal can’t ask me question about a next man carh I’m too g for that And no man can’t speak on my bredrin no way Carh I’ll beef for that I’m a 90’s baby I’m a soul child I got me a princess she got no miles Henessey and weed keep me docile I keep hundred fiends on my mobile I’m still gang affiliated check my profile Indictments on me we gotta go trial VV’s on my freestyle make you hold smile Big man you can’t take me for no juvenile I got teeth in this thing like a crocodile Yeah you see him doing you well you wanna pop him down Carh he used to be a worker but he bossing now Do it just plain jane watch me maintain Bait face, with the spinner, that’s the Treyway I Alexander my queen carh that’s my bae bae I let my soldier watch me whip but I don’t nae nae I let it and dry and hit the block man I don’t lay lay More money, more pagans, I ain’t J Spades More guns and they’re shooting like Dwayne Wade Rich Dad, Poor Dad I’m tryna stay paid So I get it in and get it got the same day Trafficking, business ac*men, brown tape packaging Had me on the yard with my savages My lifestyle’s scary like Potter and the Basilisk My young g’s jack your whip, slap your b*t*h, grab your wrist sh*t, I put in the maddest shift, just whip it like a masochist for three whole years I was sad and p*ssed locked up in my cell Eating sandwiches, Penguins and a bag of crisps I’m a f**king big man for this
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