Potholderz Lyrics

(feat. Count Bass-D (Dwight Spits))

[DWIGHT SPITS]
I strive to be humble lest I stumble
Never sold a jumbo or copped chicken with it's mumbo sauce
Tyson is a Fowl holocaust
Fill and gas your whole head up with poetry I'm fed up
Ignore cordon bluh
Stand up get up
Lunge for your knife
Don't forget your potholders

[MF DOOM]
What
These old things
About to throw them away
With the gold rings that make 'em don't fit like O.J
Usually I take them off with oil of ole
MC's is crabs in a barrel pass the old bay
Hot as hell and it's a cold day in it
Working on a way that we roll away tinted
Some say the price of holdin 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 shoe pie
[never too busy]
Never too busy when it comes down to you and I
[Swear to god]
A lot of niggaz wish to die
Need to hold they horses
There's bigger fish to fry
Your on the list
If not hit the number spot
Ten and a half Timbs is made to kick your bumbaclot
Could have 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 da dutchie
So I can calm down so they don't get it twisted
Take it from the fire side it wont get blistered
Got it
What happened oh it's not lit
These metal fingers be holding hot shit

[DWIGHT SPITS]
When I was four I pen god was born in new york
Back in seventy seven still got nan in the crescent
The effervescent of gods presence is thick
Unlike vapor
Escarole
extra roll
Word to the baker
Peace to the hard working ginger bread makers
Looked her up and down said hmmmm too much make up
Poor music taste
Ten years from being grown up
Rappers don't blow up heads do
[awwwww shit]
My name is Dwight Spits
I'ma sonic addict
I use to think it was merely a dangling habit
Born under a bad sign
I'm serious about this curse of mine
I strive to flip it in the fine wine
Barely born a virgin is what the stars said
Black not white red all over doe 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 can test the labor
And it's wages
You know death
I serving life from this gift of god
Don't forget your potholders my niggaz