Luyện nghe bài hát Priesthood

As the final days begin, God sends four horsemen *horses neighing*
To reek his vengeance on a sinfull word. the three bring
to war and famine.

[intro: killah
Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. that!
(set it off.) yea, yea, ya shitted.
Ya in shit now, son.
It's on now, mothafuckas can my dick.
I'm back! fuck shit!
Ready to eat up, beat they ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma this shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. what!?

[movie
and punishment of enemies.

[killah
I give a fake rapper a heart attack, once I to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, I'm to rip
Last poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive
Then I finish ya off my tremendous horse-kick *horses neighing*
What now, look at ya talk shit
Just can't do it, 'cause you ain't got no teeth in ya
And I know ya tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya all year, in a karate class
And took one second, to put yo' ass in a bag
>from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya and ya parties don't last
I like to pop shit, get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all kids in kindegarten
yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron

[movie
The horsemen of the apocalypse are among the bible's
terrifying figures.

[killah
'cause niggaz is fucked up
And niggaz is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya
But don't worry, 'cause stitch ya
a rusty screwdriver

[chorus x2: priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, shit
Call up yo' cliques to this, realness
You feel in yo' streets and village
Spare new shit, priest killed it

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a macabeast mc and I the ability
To run at top speed without bendin my
I shit...

[movie
The fourth horsemen is the frightening of them all.

...wrap my hands ya neck region
Then I start 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin wit ya tongues
I the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your frame could never sustain
You'll probably never ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I you lyin stiff
Pull you behind my horse til I ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron
You can't rhyme bitch, the one triple nine's mine
The pain'll make ya change octaves
low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We judge by they lyrical fitness
And dj's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for askin for our autograph and
You'll be scared to the club wit us
You stratch my back, scratch your's bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, wit a sub-atomic scud
to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the back of four
four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
*horses