| I strive to be humble, lest I stumble
|
| Never sold a jumbo or copped chicken with its mumbo
|
| Sauce, Tyson is a fowl holocaust
|
| Hitler gassed your whole head up with poultry, I’m fed up
|
| Ignore cordon bleu, stand up, get up
|
| Lunge for your knife, don’t forget your potholders
|
| (Hot shit)
|
| What, these old things? |
| About to throw 'em away
|
| With the gold rings that make 'em don’t fit like OJ
|
| Usually I take them off with Oil of Olay
|
| MCs is crabs in a barrel, pass the Old Bay
|
| Hot as hell and it’s a cold day, innit?
|
| Working on a way that we can roll away tinted
|
| Some say the price of holding heat is often too high
|
| You either be in a coffin or you be the new guy
|
| The one that’s too fly to eat shoo pie
|
| Never too busy when it comes down to you and I
|
| (Swear to God) A lot of niggas wish to die
|
| They need to hold they horses, there’s bigger fish to fry
|
| You’re on the list, if not, pick a number spot
|
| Ten and a half Timbs is made to kick your bumba claat
|
| I coulda had a V-8
|
| F-150 quad cab but I’ll be straight
|
| Money comes and goes like that two bit hussy
|
| That night that tried to rush me, Dwight, pass the dutchie
|
| So I can calm down so they don’t get it twisted
|
| Take it from the fire side, it won’t get blistered
|
| Got it, what happened? |
| Oh, it’s not lit
|
| These metal fingers be holding (hot shit)
|
| When I was four, I penned «God Was Born In New York»
|
| Back in '77, still got nan in the crescent
|
| The effervescence of God’s presence is thick
|
| Unlike vapor, Esther Rolle, extra raw, word to the baker
|
| Peace to the hardworkin' gingerbread makers
|
| Looked her up and down said, «Hmm, too much makeup»
|
| Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up
|
| Rappers don’t blow up heads do (aww shit)
|
| My name is Dwight Spitz, I’mma Sonic addict
|
| I use to think it was merely a nagging habit
|
| Born under a bad sign, I’m serious about this curse of mine
|
| I strive to flip it into fine wine
|
| Barely born a virgin is what the stars said
|
| Black not white, red all over though like Elmo
|
| Twenty-eight years have passed, I feel I’m peaking
|
| I make music every weekend
|
| It’s a chore, a fact of life, a labor of love
|
| I get mad love but I detest the labor
|
| And its wages, you know death
|
| I’m servin' life from this gift of God
|
| Don’t forget your potholders, my niggas (more hot shit)
|
| A short time later |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Potholderz , by - Count Bass D. Song from the album Best of Mf, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп