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(feat. Count Bass-D (Dwight Spits)) [DWIGHT SPITS] 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