"Fast car" is kind of a continuation of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." It has all the clawing your way to a better life, but in this case the protagonist never makes it with her love; in fact she is dragged back down by him.
There is still an amazing amount of hope and will in the lyrics; and the lyrics themselve rank and easy five. If only music was stronger it would be one of those great radio songs that you hear once a week 20 years after it was released. The imagery is almost tear-jerking ("City lights lay out before us", "Speeds so fast felt like I was drunk"), and the idea of starting from nothing and just driving and working and denigrating yourself for a chance at being just above poverty, then losing in the end is just painful and inspiring at the same time.
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
These old things
About to throw 'em 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 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 bombaclat
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 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 hmmm 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
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
These old things
About to throw 'em 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 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 bombaclat
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 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 hmmm 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
Lyrics submitted by Sociodemographic
Potholderz Lyrics as written by Dwight Farrell Daniel Thompson
Lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Exploration Group LLC
Lyrics powered by LyricFind
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Pot Holders=Roach Clips theyre holding hot shit