Luyện nghe bài hát Priesthood

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

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

sample]
Violence and of enemies.

priest]
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 wit my explosive fist
I finish ya off with my tremendous horse-kick *horses neighing*
What now, nigga? look at ya shit
Just can't do it, 'cause you ain't got no in ya mouth
And I know ya just tired of me, ya out
Ya trained all year, in a class
And one second, to put yo' ass in a body bag
>from a shotty blast, I up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I like to pop shit, get me started
I slap y'all like y'all little kids in kindegarten
yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin

[movie
The four horsemen of the apocalypse are the bible's
Most figures.

[killah
'cause y'all is fucked up
And niggaz is really ready to get ya
I how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya
With a screwdriver

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

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

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

...wrap my hands ya neck region
Then I start squeezin 'til ya breathin
You weaklins is playin tug-of-war wit ya
I knock the teeth out ya and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame never sustain
You'll probably walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron fist
You can't rhyme bitch, the one nine's mine bitch
The pain'll make ya voice octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a
We judge mc's by lyrical fitness
And punish dj's for puttin corny on they mixes
Smack the stripper for askin for our autograph and pictures
You'll be scared to leave the wit us
You stratch my back, I'll scratch bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
Ready to spill ya blood
The four horsemen on the back of four
Puttin four prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
neighing*