MF Doom - Potholderz lyrics

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

Fill and gas your whole head up with poetry

I'm fed up

Ignore cordon bluh

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 ole

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 niggaz

wish to die

Need to hold they horses

There's bigger

fish to fry

Your on the list

If not hit the number

spot

Ten and a half Timbs is made to kick your

bumbaclot

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 da

dutchie

So I can calm down so they don't get it

twisted

Take it from the fire side it wont get

blistered

Got it

What happened oh it's not

lit

These metal fingers be holding hot shit

[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 gods presence is

thick

Unlike vapor

Escarole

extra roll

Word to

the baker

Peace to the hard working ginger bread

makers

Looked her up and down said hmmmm too much make

up

Poor music taste

Ten years from being grown

up

Rappers don't blow up heads do

[awwwww

shit]

My name is Dwight Spits

I'ma sonic

addict

I use to think it was merely a dangling

habit

Born under a bad sign

I'm serious about this

curse of mine

I strive to flip it in the fine

wine

Barely born a virgin is what the stars said

Black

not white red all over doe 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 can test the labor

And

it's wages

You know death

I serving life from this

gift of god

Don't forget your potholders my niggaz