Potholderz feat. Count Bass D

Hot shit (aww shit), hot shit (aww shit)
 Hot shit (aww shit), hot shit
 Hot shit (aww shit), hot shit (aww shit)
 Hot shit (aww shit)
 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 potholderz
 (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 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 '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'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
 28 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 potholderz, my niggas
 (More hot-)
 (More hot shit)
 (More hot shit)
 ♪
 (A short time later)