Оригинален текст
Intro: Killah Priest
Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. fck that!
I'm set it off. Yea, yea, ya .
Ya in some s**t now, son.
It's on now, mothafkas can suck my d*ck.
I'm back! fck that s**t!
Ready to eat up, beat they as* and e'rything, son.
I'ma prove this s**t, right here.
Me and my nigg*. What!?
Killah Priest
The emperor, chief sinister, street minister
Guarenteed in two bars to finish ya
React like a cat when he arches back
Give a fake rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigg*, supposed to rip
Last Poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist
Then I finish ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, nigg*? Look at ya, talk s**t
Can't do it, cuz you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth
And I know ya just tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a karate class
It took one second, to put yo' as* in a body bag
>From a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I like to pop s**t, don't get me started
I slap y'all mothafkas like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, I'ma call my whole mothafkin squadron
And tell to just start robbin
Cuz y'all is fked up
and Brooklyn is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, cuz I'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver
Chorus: Killah Priest
bop yo' heads to this, real s**t
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new s**t, Priest killed it
Y! bop yo' heads to this, real s**t
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new s**t, 'bus killed it
Canibus
Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a Macabeast MC and I possess the ability
To run at top speed without bendin my knees
I destory s**t, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl thousands of miles an hour, towards it
fkin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I start squeezin 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame could never sustain
You'll probably never walk ever again
nigg*, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you behind my horse til I break ya spine, b*tch
Stop cryin b*tch, before I hit ya wit the Iron, b*tch
You can't rhyme b*tch, the one triple nine's mine b*tch
The pain'll make ya voice change octaves
>From low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We judge MC's by they lyrical fitness
And punish DJ's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper girls for askin for our autograph and pictures
You'll be scared to leave the club wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's b*tch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic scud
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the back of four quadropeds
Puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothafkas!
(There it is!) So bop ya heads to that, uh (There it is!)
Chorus
Outro: Killah Priest
fkin p*ssy emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all talk behind nigg*'s backs
Y'all better bop ya mothafkin heads before we blow it off
Ya fkin perfume missin idiots
Y'all always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's back
Run and tell that and take these fkin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothafkin clown
Yea...
