Lyrical Breakdown of Potholderz feat. Count Bass D - A Journey through Words and Rhymes

Welcome to the detailed analysis of "Potholderz feat. Count Bass D" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.

• Lyric Overview: Witness how MF DOOM weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Potholderz feat. Count Bass D" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
• Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that MF DOOM employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
• Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to MF DOOM's narrative.

This lyrical analysis of "Potholderz feat. Count Bass D" not only celebrates MF DOOM's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!

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 I'm fed up Ignore Cordon Bleu, stand up, get up Lunge for your knife; don't forget your potholderz Hot shit, 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 Olay 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 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 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 They need to hold their 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 bumbaclaat 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 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 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, "Hmm, too much makeup" Poor music taste, ten years from being grown up Rappers don't blow up heads, do, aw shit My name is Dwight Spits, I'm a 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 virgin is what the stars said Black not white, red all over though like Elmo Twenty eight years have passed, I feel I'm peakin' 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 its wages, you know death I'm servin' life on this gift of God Don't forget your potholderz, my niggaz Mo' hot Mo' hot shit Mo' hot shit