MF Doom Feat. Count Bass D - Potholderz lyrics
rate meHot shit, aw shit, hot shit, aw shit<br />
Hot shit, aw shit, hot shit<br />
Hot shit, aw shit, hot shit, aw shit<br />
Hot shit, aw shit<br />
<br />
I strive to be humble lest I stumble, never sold a jumbo<br />
Or copped chicken with its mumbo sauce<br />
Tyson is a fowl holocaust<br />
Hitler gassed your whole head up with poetry I'm fed up<br />
Ignore Cordon Bleu, stand up, get up<br />
Lunge for your knife; don't forget your potholderz<br />
<br />
Hot shit, what? These old things? About to throw them away<br />
With the gold rings that make 'em don't fit like O.J.<br />
Usually I take them off with Oil of Olay<br />
MC's is crabs in a barrel, pass the old bay<br />
<br />
Hot as hell and it's a cold day in it<br />
Working on a way that we go roll away tinted<br />
Some say the price of holdin’ heat is often too high<br />
You either be in a coffin or you be the new guy<br />
<br />
The one that's too fly to eat shoe pie, never too busy<br />
Never too busy when it comes down to you and I<br />
Swear to God, a lot of niggaz wish to die<br />
They need to hold their horses, there's bigger fish to fry<br />
<br />
You're on the list, if not pick a number spot<br />
Ten and a half timbs is made to kick your bumbaclaat<br />
I could have had a V-8<br />
F-150 quad cab but I'll be straight<br />
<br />
Money comes and goes like that two bit hussy<br />
That night that tried to rush me, Dwight, pass the dutchie<br />
So I can calm down so they don't get it twisted<br />
Take it from the fire side it won't get blistered<br />
Got it, what happened? Oh, it's not lit<br />
These metal fingers be holding hot shit<br />
<br />
When I was four I pen God was born in New York<br />
Back in seventy seven still got nan in the crescent<br />
The effervescence of God's presence is thick<br />
Unlike vapor, escarole, extra roll, word to the baker<br />
Peace to the hard workin’ ginger bread makers<br />
<br />
Looked her up and down, said, “Hmm, too much makeupâ€<br />
Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up<br />
Rappers don't blow up heads, do, aw shit<br />
<br />
My name is Dwight Spits, I'm a Sonic addict<br />
I use to think it was merely a nagging habit<br />
Born under a bad sign, I'm serious about this curse of mine<br />
I strive to flip it into fine wine<br />
<br />
Barely born a virgin is what the stars said<br />
Black not white, red all over though like Elmo<br />
Twenty eight years have passed, I feel I'm peakin’<br />
I make music every weekend<br />
<br />
It's a chore, a fact of life, a labor of love<br />
I get mad love but I detest the labor<br />
And its wages, you know death<br />
I'm servin’ life on this gift of God<br />
Don't forget your potholderz, my niggaz<br />
<br />
Mo' hot<br />
Mo' hot shit<br />
Mo' hot shit