I can't tell Hattie White that blue-eyed version is make believe stuff
She throw me out the house, say, "Ye deliver us from this heathen"
I say that to Ms. Tina, she'll sneeze at sun, her photic reflex
They both had straightening combs, little did they know
I hold the heat next
Neither tool can be used to fix our defects
She throw me out the house, say, "Ye deliver us from this heathen"
I say that to Ms. Tina, she'll sneeze at sun, her photic reflex
They both had straightening combs, little did they know
I hold the heat next
Neither tool can be used to fix our defects