Talking

Yo, yo, what up, son? Yeah

Get your weed and your Heineken

It's melodic, Yo, yo, who got a stogie on them?

Priest... I'm dropping the Killah

Beloved the beloved beloved brothers come on



When doves cry doobie fly Cooley High school kids

Watching White Shadow my favorite character was Coolidge

Movie slides the shots and the car chase

My favorite was Al Pacino in Scarface

Cool like DeNiro in Casino, old Mob tapes

It made my heart break when Fredo ratted on his brother Michael

Godfather 2, we replayed the Don's drama in school

Article 2, my 16's are like

Billiondollar budget movie scene on big screens

Al Green is doing my themes

From off the Greatest Hits which is my favorite disc

Play it, it skips, the screens burns from a tiny brown hole

In the center the bulbs pop it's the picture

I learned to handle bars on the mic

Before I handled bars on the bike, I hold it tight

Drug dealers homage empty promises acknowledge this

Broken dreams smoking fiends lying on the roof

Some are nodding with the belts tied around they arms

Out cold, pipes still in they palms

A household about five at night four are gone

To roam the streets around Section 8

Here's my Offering pass around collection plates



Chorus

Dreamers dream, melodic flow governed by Kings

Wings of a phoenix bird take up my words

And peck 'em down to a compound, observe

Refers his master



Stainless glass windows of ancient black Negroes on my casement

My visitors, thug niggas hopping out of spaceships

Like "What up Priest? We just swerved across your spectrum"

Word, had Armani spacesuits, holding two bad alien birds

Saying "Neek neek neek" translated means "where's the herb? "

He fucked the green bitch, I took the blue one

Up in some alien pussy

"Nigga, save the crew some! "

Yells one of my dogs

Just came home from Mars

He was up in this bar where this lizard bitch was stripping

Bugging, like we acid tripping

Addicts in my vision

The scene turns like it's Claudine

James Earl Jones, hot combs over stoves

Dax hair grease, a rare piece of footage, hood clips

Narrated and composed by the Priest

Curtains close on the streets

The score's done by the poor but the pure dreamers



Chorus



Hell Razah

Handwriting's on the project wall

Spray painted in the modern day Cuneiform

On black uniforms

You might meet a crackhead that made it, to translate it

He can tell you who's fuckin' with broads, and who related

But you gotta know the ghetto password, so he could say it

In the Hood we turn throwing up signs into a language

Rather blue steel or stainless guns, we gonna buy 'em

Riots, we gonna start 'em, fuck it, they got problems

Pour me some more crushed grapes in my cup, it's envy and lust

It's automatic semis we clutch, to David Ruff

We carve knives out of elephant tusks

Eleven of us, then build about the angels and the God we trust