"Holy Moly" lyrics
Yeah, as a kid growing up in Brooklyn, my pops was a DJ
He had a bunch of records: funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul
There was this one gospel record I liked like, like
Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy holy
Yeah, this rhyme is so fat it's roly poly
I give you intimate details so you can get to know me
These corporate rappers like "Why this dude picking on me?"
You rap your way to the top, but now it's getting lonely
Kids is hungry and you looking like a steak from Nick & Toni's
But don't nobody want your jewels, 'cause your shit is phony
Say word? Your shit is real? Damn, your shit is corny
My rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley
And touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe
Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from New York
Started out skating for Zoo York
Word hanging out at The Gavin, I was very lucky
To talk to Rash' once I got past Derek Dudley
Got him on "Respiration", that's pre-Badu
Bet you Garnett Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo
Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning I gotta tread water
Head above the water I always remember Headquarters
Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused
I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define opus
Sometimes hopeless people, fill my thoughts with evil
My record so hard it broke the needle
At the Mixtape Awards niggas act like they don't give a fuck though
And disrespect the legacy of Justo
What the blood clot? No, let the blood flow
You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come for?
Too many good niggas die, it's like a stop loss
Hood niggas ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce
How you hard? The cops letting 50 shots off
Baby Jay-Z's with the knockoff Scott Storch beat
You are not Short, you are not Katt
You're not a player or a pimp, money stop that
Learn to master your speech and be eloquent
Rappers keep peddling sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin
We used to kick up dust, now we settling
Rest in peace to Dilla, Weldon, we can't forget you
Professor X and, Proof we miss you, word
Rest in peace to Shaka, twenty-one gun salute
In the air like "Blaka, blaka, blaka"
You're still here 'cause you're living through me
You're like a gift God has given to me
Uh, uh, uh, what?
He had a bunch of records: funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul
There was this one gospel record I liked like, like
Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy holy
Yeah, this rhyme is so fat it's roly poly
I give you intimate details so you can get to know me
These corporate rappers like "Why this dude picking on me?"
You rap your way to the top, but now it's getting lonely
Kids is hungry and you looking like a steak from Nick & Toni's
But don't nobody want your jewels, 'cause your shit is phony
Say word? Your shit is real? Damn, your shit is corny
My rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley
And touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe
Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from New York
Started out skating for Zoo York
Word hanging out at The Gavin, I was very lucky
To talk to Rash' once I got past Derek Dudley
Got him on "Respiration", that's pre-Badu
Bet you Garnett Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo
Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning I gotta tread water
Head above the water I always remember Headquarters
Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused
I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define opus
Sometimes hopeless people, fill my thoughts with evil
My record so hard it broke the needle
At the Mixtape Awards niggas act like they don't give a fuck though
And disrespect the legacy of Justo
What the blood clot? No, let the blood flow
You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come for?
Too many good niggas die, it's like a stop loss
Hood niggas ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce
How you hard? The cops letting 50 shots off
Baby Jay-Z's with the knockoff Scott Storch beat
You are not Short, you are not Katt
You're not a player or a pimp, money stop that
Learn to master your speech and be eloquent
Rappers keep peddling sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin
We used to kick up dust, now we settling
Rest in peace to Dilla, Weldon, we can't forget you
Professor X and, Proof we miss you, word
Rest in peace to Shaka, twenty-one gun salute
In the air like "Blaka, blaka, blaka"
You're still here 'cause you're living through me
You're like a gift God has given to me
Uh, uh, uh, what?
Writer(s): Bernie Taupin, Elton John, Talib Kweli Greene
