Текст песни Potholderz - MF DOOM, Count Bass D

Potholderz

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 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 OJ
Usually I take them 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?
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 when it comes down to you and I
(Swear to God) A lot of niggas 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
I 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, 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 shit)
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 hardworkin' gingerbread makers
Looked her up and down said, «Hmm, too much makeup»
Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up
Rappers don’t blow up heads do (aww shit)
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 virgin is what the stars said
Black not white, red all over though 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 detest the labor
And its wages, you know death
I’m servin' life from this gift of God
Don’t forget your potholders, my niggas (more hot shit)
A short time later