MF Doom Potholderz Lyrics

{*scratched: "Aww s___" ... "hot s___"*}

[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
Hitler gassed your whole head up with poetry I'm fed up
Ignore cordon bleu, 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 Olay
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 n____z 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 b__ba claat
... I 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 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 s___

[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 God's presence is thick
Unlike vapor, escarole, extra roll, word to the baker
Peace to the hard workin ginger bread makers
Looked her up and down said hmmmm too much makeup
Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up
My name is Dwight Spits, I'ma 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 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 it's wages - you know death
I'm servin life on this gift of God
Don't forget your potholders my n____z

{*scratched: "mo' hot s___"*}