[Count Bass D] 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)
[MF DOOM] 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)
[Count Bass D] 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)