Potholderz

[Intro: Dr. Dre & Big Daddy Kane] (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) [Verse 1: 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) [Verse 2: 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 Emcees is crabs in the 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) 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 their 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 bumbaclaat 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 they 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) [Verse 3: 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'm a 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 [Outro: Dr. Dre] (More hot..) (More hot shit) (More hot shit) A short time later