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