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(Killah Priest) |
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My rhyme, pen and king recognition dominion over false kindred's |
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The talk of women, brought from the star system |
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Dynamic emergence, wordsmith within his turban |
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Tats of the Virgin, power of planets emerging |
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Back from hell's furnace, born again, torn from sin |
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Broke the spell out of my shell, call the hermit |
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We're twirling books like Merlin within the firmament |
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The perfect balance, I hold my chalice |
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Accept ya challenge, I won't budge |
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Hardwood thugs with hammers and Timb boots and gloves |
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Woven the greatness, flowing with blood |
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That's just the basics, after I spit you'll see the Matrix |
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My heart restored with war, my grape's the realness |
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My wine of pillage, sip between lines made of pillars |
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Under his feet the word "Killah" |
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So print this out of ya data zone |
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Priest returns home, battle-zone nigga! |
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Surrounded by a sculpture of women |
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Antisocial when I wrote this rhythm |
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The vultures got in them, gave us hope at the ending |
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Game is sour like the Pope of a lemon |
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My hand's a gram; I put dope in each sentence |
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Energize rhyme, electromagnetic genetics |
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With writing esoteric, y'all could see the signs |
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I did what I could do, from the animal woods environment |
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The hood to analyze it, y'all could see the God designing |
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Deep minded, I stay rooted, sage music |
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Plus strokes of touch, your ghost hugs and shows |
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They love it yo, I do it for the souls, c'mon! |
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Raps raise the blood pressure |
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Customize rhymes to fit ya mind size |
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Difference between suicide notes or love letters |
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The light between my eyes enterprise |
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Rid you of mental waste toxins in ya doctrine |
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This oxygen is space |
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While ya head blows I pop ya face |
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Take loads off ya mind and do lunge |
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A newer army, flood the world like tsunamis |
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The greatest gift, from dark towers, Excalibur |
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He's down, now who's the next challenger? |
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That's when death surrounds ya |
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Desert Eagle peck ya by the silencer |
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Indirectly, diary, words are fiery |
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Thru the eyes of Reed, thru a tube there's I.V. creating magic |
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In some minutes or some seconds on a record |
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In the sentence my pen wand shoots stars out of measure |
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P's God, I rhyme, cause pressure |
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Mind's the treasures they call me water-head |
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It's Priest again y'all Walter's dead |
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Nah, it's Walter again y'all, Priest is on his death bed |
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Who knows which way it goes, let's call him Priesthood instead |
