Count Ba** D - Potholderz lyrics

(Hot sh**)(Aww sh**) [Repeat] [Verse 1: Count Ba** D] 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 ga**ed 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 sh**) [Verse 2: MF DOOM] What, these old things? About to throw them 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, pa** 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) Never too busy when it comes down to you and I Swear to God A lot of n***as 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 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, pa** 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 sh**) [Verse 3: Count Ba** D] 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 hard workin' gingerbread makers Looked her up and down said, 'hmmmm, too much makeup' Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up Rappers don't blow up heads do (Aww sh**) 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 Virgo is what the stars said Black not white, red all over though like Elmo Twenty-eight years have pa**ed 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 it's wages, you know d**h I'm servin' life on this gift of God Don't forget your potholders my n***as (More hot sh**)