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