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

sample]
Violence and of enemies.

priest]
I give a rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, I'm to rip
Last poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my 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 teeth in ya
And I know ya tired of me, beatin 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 walk up in ya club and ya parties last
I to pop shit, don't get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all little in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron

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

[killah
'cause y'all is fucked up
And brooklyn is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya
But don't worry, i'ma stitch ya
With a rusty

x2: killah priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, shit
Call up yo' to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' and village
Spare that new shit, killed it

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

sample]
The fourth is the most frightening of them all.

...wrap my hands around ya region
Then I squeezin 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame never sustain
You'll never walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you stiff
you behind my horse til I break 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 voice octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, hour we kill a hostage
We judge mc's by they fitness
And punish dj's for puttin corny on they mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for for our autograph and pictures
be scared to leave the club wit us
You stratch my back, I'll scratch your's
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored
The horsemen on the back of four quadropeds
Puttin hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
*horses