Potholderz (feat. Count Bass D)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

(Hot shit)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

(Hot shit) (Aw shit)

I strive to be humble, lest I stumble

Never sold a jumbo or copped chicken wings with 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 O.J.

Usually I take 'em 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?

Workin' on a way that we can 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 shoo pie

Never too busy when it comes down to you and I (Swear to God)

A lot of **** 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-half Timbs is made to kick your bumbaclaat

I could have had a V8

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 fireside, 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 seventy-seven, still got nan in the crescent

The effervescence of God's presence is thick

Unlike vapor, Esther Rolle , extra roll, word to the baker

Peace to the hard-working gingerbread makers

Looked her up and down and said, "Hmm, too much make up"

Poor music taste, ten years from bein' grown up

Rappers don't blow up, heads do (Aw shit)

My name is Dwight Spitz, I'm a sonic addict

I used 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 peakin'

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 on this gift of God

Don't forget your potholders, my ****

(Mo' hot)

(Mo' hot shit)

(Mo' hot shit)

(A short time later)