โหลดเพลง mp3 Potholderz - MF Doom

Potholderz Feat. Count Bass D - MF Doom
Hot sh*t aww sh*t

Hot sh*t aww sh*t

Hot sh*t aww sh*t

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Hot sh*t aww sh*t

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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 sh*t
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 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 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 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 sh*t
When I was four I penned God Was Born In New York
Back in '77 still got nan in the crescent yep
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 hmm too much makeup
Poor music taste ten years from being grown up
Rappers don't blow up heads do aww sh*t

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 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 it's wages you know death
I'm servin' life on this gift of God

Don't forget your potholders my niggas

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