Kunci: D minor
Intro 1
Gm
Ab
Bbaug
D
Gm
Ab
Bbaug
D
Verse 1
Gm
I strive to be humble,
lest I stumble,
Ab
never sold a jumbo,
Bbaug
or cop chicken wings
D
Gm
with mumbo sauce,
Tyson is a foul holocaust,
Ab
D
Hitler gash your whole head up with poultry, I'm fed up
Gm
Ig nore Cordon Bleu, stand up,
Ab
get up, lunch for your knife
D
Gm
Don't forget your pot holders
Ab
Hot shit, what? These old things?
D
About to throw them away
Gm
With the gold rings
that make them don't fit like OJ
Ab
D
Usually I take them off with oil
Gm
or ole MC's
as crabs in a barrel past the old bay
Ab
Bbaug
D
Hot as hell and it's a cold day in it
Gm
Working on a way that we
can roll away tinnit
Ab
Bbaug
Some say the price of holding heat
D
is often too high
Gm
You either be in a coffin
or you be the new guy
Ab
D
The one that's too fly to eat chupai
Gm
Never too busy when
Ab
it comes down to you and I
Bbaug
D
A lot of niggas wish to die
Gm
They need to hold their horses,
it's bigger fish to fry
Ab
D
You're on the list, if not,
pick a number spot
Gm
Ten and a half
Ab
Timbs is made to kick your bumper climb
D
Gm
I coulda had a V8, F -150 quad cab,
but I'll be straight
Ab
Money comes and goes
D
like that two -bit
Gm
Hustle that night to try to rush me
Dwight passed the dutchie
Ab
So I could calm down
D
so they don't get it twisted
Gm
Take it from the fireside
and won't get enlisted
Ab
Gm
Got it, what happened? Oh, it's not lit
These metal fingers be holdin' hot shit
Ab
When I was four, I penned
D
God was born in New York
Gm
Back in 77, still got Nan in the crescent
Ab
The effervescence of God's
Bbaug
presence is thick
D
Gm
Un like vapor, esterol, extra roll,
word to the baker
Ab
Peace to the hard -workin'
D
gingerbread makers
Gm
Looked up and down, said,
hmm, too much make -up
Ab
D
Poor music tastes ten years from
being grown -up
Gm
Rappers don't blow up, heads do
Aw, shit
Ab
My name is Dwight Spitz,
D
I'm a sonic addict
Gm
I used to think it was
merely a nagging habit
D
Born under a bad sign
Gm
I'm serious about this curse of mine
I strive to flip it in the fine wine
Ab
Barely born a virgin is
Bbaug
D
what the stars said
Gm
Black, not white, red all over,
though, like Elmo
Ab
D
28 years have passed,
I feel I'm peaking
Gm
I make music every weekend
Ab
D
It's a chore, a fact of life
Gm
A labor of love, I get mad love
but I detest the labor
Ab
And it's wages, you know death
Bbaug
D
Gm
I'm serving life from this gift of God
Ab
Don't forget your potholders,
my niggas
Bbaug
D
Gm
Mojito
Ab
Mojito
D
Gm
Ab
Mojito
Bbaug
D
Gm
Ab
Bbaug
D
Gm
Ab
Bbaug
D
Gm
Ab
Bbaug
D
Ab
Bbaug
D
Gm
Ab
Background music playing.
Bbaug
D
Gm
A
short time later.
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