MF DOOM - Potholderz [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[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

[Verse 2: MF DOOM]
These old things
About to throw them 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 in it
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 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 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 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

[Verse 3: Count Bass D]
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 God's 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 hmmmm too much makeup
Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up
Rappers don't blow up heads do
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 Virgo 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 it's wages, you know death
I'm servin life on this gift of God
Don't forget your potholders my niggas