Hot shit, aw shit, hot shit, aw shit
Hot shit, aw shit, hot shit
Hot shit, aw shit, hot shit, aw shit
Hot shit, aw shit
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 poetry Im fed up
Ignore Cordon Bleu, stand up, get up
Lunge for your knife dont forget your potholderz
Hot shit, what? These old things? About to throw them away
With the gold rings that make em dont fit like O.J.
Usually I take them off with Oil of Olay
MCs is crabs in a barrel, pass the old bay
Hot as hell and its a cold day in it
Working on a way that we go 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 thats 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
They need to hold their horses, theres bigger fish to fry
Youre on the list, if not pick a number spot
Ten and a half timbs is made to kick your bumbaclaat
I could have had a V-8
F-150 quad cab but Ill 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 dont get it twisted
Take it from the fire side it wont get blistered
Got it, what happened? Oh, its not lit
These metal fingers be holding hot shit
When I was four I pen God was born in New York
Back in seventy seven still got nan in the crescent
The effervescence of Gods presence is thick
Unlike vapor, escarole, extra roll, word to the baker
Peace to the hard workin ginger bread makers
Looked her up and down, said, Hmm, too much makeup
Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up
Rappers dont blow up heads, do, aw shit
My name is Dwight Spits, Im a Sonic addict
I use to think it was merely a nagging habit
Born under a bad sign, Im 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 Im peakin
I make music every weekend
Its 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
Im servin life on this gift of God
Dont forget your potholderz, my niggaz
Mo hot
Mo hot shit
Mo hot shit