Helikopter w ogniu Lyrics (English Translation) – Bedoes 2115

Read the full Helikopter w ogniu (English Translation) lyrics by Bedoes 2115 along with the music video, song credits, release information and other details about the song. If you enjoy Bedoes 2115’s music, you can also explore Kamieñ z serca, another song by Bedoes 2115.

[Intro]
Welcome, my dear ones, to the land of cold cuts,
The return of that d!ckhead was a disappointment, now it’s the escape plan.
I’m going one level down, no doubt, when I answer you.
You could’ve been on the podium—now you can fu*k off.
And we won’t be friends—life ain’t a movie.
This is a no-seatbelt ride; all you’ve got left is to scream.
Who are you to try to silence us? There’s no such power.
Shut your mouth like the rap game and start being polite.
I’m a d!ck, I’m hardcore, and I’m a player.
You manure spreader, you don’t know s*it about rap.
I know who’s feeding you punches that you’re decoding in eights.

Better think about who’s your enemy and who’s your friend.
I don’t play dirty, so brother, here’s my advice:
“Hit me baby one more time?” Are you crazy?
How’s it going, being a tyrant?
Any conclusions?
I’ll suck a d!ck in front of all of Poland.

[Verse 1]
It’s 2-1-1-5, b!tch!
You’re known for mediocre punches and drinking beer,
But if you want to go at me, b!tch, beer’s not allowed.
Eri and Quebo made you, now I’m finishing you.
I’m inviting everyone to your farewell concert.
Quebo let you play at the stadium, like Probierz,
You pulled a shady move, wanted to be like Robert.
You were supposed to be a sharpshooter—now you’re a shot after vodka.
Young Borek’s commentating:
“No man, you must be from the amateur league.”
On Kanał Zero they want me on the couch for a talk,
You’re in the gutter after 0.7 of bitter vodka.
Go give an interview and tell your side of events,
One barrel and the question—why the fu*k did you even start?
You saw a bison and rolled over, fu*king mountain beer guy.
They write your punches because you’re lying pissed on the Tatras.
Flow like Warka, bro, let’s go to “you” terms,

But looking at you makes me lose the will to l…
Young B, I’ve got under your skin like Antabuse,
From now on you’ll puke like I do after your songs.
If you terrorize kids chasing dreams,
I’ll fu*k you up like I’m Osama bin Laden.
You filthy fu*k, disease of the Polish scene,
I help the youngsters, you want to destroy their careers.
It’s not fu*king okay that you walk this earth,
New times have come—we bully the bullies.
I’m half a ton Montana, you’re half-wit, half-d!ck.
Your diss—half-truth, half-drug, half-lie.
Half a tone quieter when you speak to me,
Because you’re not on my shelf in rap and punchlines.
Like a pedophile cosplay because I’ve got a mustache, bro.
You answered so long I grew my beard back.
You’re a cosplay rapper and cosplay thug,
And all you can do is something about “fat guy.”
Suddenly you joke on a sample but came in like a killer,
Then saw that the one who wins is the one with chill.
So who’s the populist here—me or Mister Half-Punch?
Six days and you say “rap, b!tch”?
You wanted to eat me, but I got stuck in your throat—
And you suck so hard I’m stuck there still.
You’re still yapping about weight but it doesn’t faze me,
I showed you where pepper grows ‘cause I’ve got a mole above my d!ck.
And I wasn’t supposed to eat that weight, guess I won’t lose it—
Because again on the beat I’m eating pu*sy, gluten’s fu*king me.
You disgrace your city, I love people from Kraków.
From today, you’re in the urinal—the new head of the fours.

[Chorus]
I don’t give a fu*k about your lies, don’t give a fu*k what you record.
Even if you introduce yourself, it still won’t be the truth.
Don’t give a fu*k about headlines, don’t give a fu*k about reach.
Bad word about my loved ones—you get no teeth.
I don’t give a fu*k about your lies, don’t give a fu*k what you record.
Even if you introduce yourself, it still won’t be the truth.
Don’t give a fu*k about headlines, don’t give a fu*k about reach.
Bad word about my loved ones—you get no teeth.

[Verse 2]
You mock mental illness ‘cause you’re human garbage.
I play this for people with depression and bipolar.
With Borys we’re even ‘cause he doesn’t like to insult.
Young Borek will bury you until you scream “sorry.”
I don’t care about rap scandals, beefs, or afterparties.
I let Wini slide ‘cause he’s funny.
Don’t care what rappers say about me.
I respect legends and do what I’ve gotta do.
What’s hurting you? Does it really hurt that much?
It hurt me when Rychu posted a diss on his story with Deks—
‘Cause I saw you as idols, and ten-year-old Borys’s heart would’ve broken.
But nothing changes—you’ve gotta keep living,
Stay true to yourself, don’t let them spit in your face.
And I’ll remember those who were with me at rock bottom,
‘Cause loyalty ain’t earned with a funny punch.
Nobody writes for me, you jealous fu*k.
I’ll have a ghostwriter when I buy a Rolls Royce.
And the fact they think it’s not Borcia’s text—
Flatters me like… I don’t know, fu*k it, a sandwich?
In your songs you keep forcing the number two,
You’re about to pop a vein in that s*it-smelling booth.
Producer’s asking you to record in a diaper,
‘Cause normal people come in after your sessions.
When my patience ran out, I put on a hat
And became the kingslayer of self-proclaimed Punchliners.
You fell in Kołobrzeg and squealed like in Hel.
You were to be king, now you’re a chestnut from Wawel.
Me and the King of New York split a piece of cake—
For the ears, every one of your tracks is a piece of torture.
We had an important day, you tried to ruin it.
You wore a costume ‘cause inside you’re just a fan, dude.
You glorify being bad and tough—
That’s just image, you’re not from the hood, I am.
I’ve kissed the pavement more than once,
And on every birthday begged for it to end.
After six days you post a Magik song—
I’d trade all your verses for nothing.
And how am I supposed to not be fat when I ate a wack MC?
All my work—a monument built for years—
Against filth and the fall of principles.
Be elegant—money’s not the most important.
Heart, dedication, hard work—
I’ve got a company with my brothers, we know what class is.

[Chorus]
(repeats same as before)

[Part 2 – Verse 1]
From day one on stage, Borys was the scapegoat.
I was a training punching bag, but I’ve grown a bit.
They say if you want peace, prepare for war.
Leave me alone or you’ll all rest with him.
18 weapons in my safe—
Think twice before stepping on my property.
The priest will have a procession, the family will have complaints,
My lawyer full of work—you’ll be lucky if you’re still breathing.
Breathe, breathe—for my family I’m ready to die.
I’m no thug, no mafia, no gangster—
But for my people I’ll have beef with the devil himself.
I can fight even Mike—
When you get on the beat you sound like you’d fight that mic…
And you’re a one-punch pu*sy.
This is the last time I talk about that punch—
I’ve got bigger ambitions than being someone’s nightmare.
It’s more fun making dreams come true—
There’s always a bigger badass.
Let me explain how you should’ve behaved:
If you get hit and you talk, and then there’s a handshake and peace,
When you come back—you don’t lie or talk s*it to your boys.
I didn’t mention Penx, Delekta, and left Zygson out.
I don’t give a fu*k about Oxon’s posts—I’d do the same for my boy.
You tricked them and touch my crew since I was a kid—
Are you sure you’re not the pedophile here?
B!tch, what s*xtape? What are you talking about?
The s*xtape is this beef—drunk swallows my sweet fat d!ck.
I won’t kick a man when he’s down, not my style—
And yeah, my d!ck’s hard, I love when a bully loses.
Old men sit and write love songs about me—
If you want a kiss, come here, don’t be shy, fu*ker.
There’s plenty in the mainstream with no dignity—
But that’s not me, I’m real to the bone.
I’m ending this beef—though for me it ended under the hotel,
Because a handshake is worth more than posts.
I already said sorry ‘cause you took your words back,
Now I’ve gotta apologize for having to bury you.
How can you say I touch kids with my d!ck?
I don’t get it—you’re a disgusting person, b!tch.
What’s in your head?
When we meet again, you’ll say “I’m just rapping”?
Just rapping that someone’s a snitch, huh?
I live close to God, clean conscience—
Anyone who knows me knows I help however I can.
I never mock working people—you twist facts, spin the cat by the tail.
That’s all you’ve got left—I respect money.
I treat my career like a gift, haven’t drunk in years,
Always keep class at concerts.
You drank yours away—you don’t respect your audience.
And that diss you dropped proves it.
And I don’t know why you mention your dog and wife suddenly—
Playing the victim when you started it.
You wanted to end my career, but you ended up at the finish line.
And if you check this track at the hangover… just drop it.
I’m not waiting for your reply—I’m going back to my duties:
Caring for my family, friends, and my boys.
It was fun at first, now it’s just meh.
Eripe’s staying on the tombstone—‘cause that’s where he belongs?
I’m playing the National Stadium tomorrow—and even though your reply is weak,
I shouldn’t even react, but I will—because I’m a rapper.
And beefs are usually won by the better rapper or the better man.
You’re an average rapper and a nasty person.
You’ve fed on hate your whole career,
Insulted us for years, even accused us of snitching—
And then in person said it’s “just rap”?
And yeah, I hit you—gave you a fatherly smack so hard Mother Earth hugged you.
And I apologized for it ‘cause you withdrew your words.
We shook hands—fu*k, I’ve said this 100 times.
It’s dishonorable to shake a man’s hand and then go home and insult him—
Even I know that’s ugly.
This beef is pointless—you’ll just keep calling me fat.
I don’t want to write songs about alcoholism—
That’s just sad, man, really.
And I genuinely wish you get out of it.
I won’t brag about what happened under the hotel or this beef—
Because you’re no opponent for 2115.