Lyrics Melodic Pt. 2 - Killah Priest , Hell Razah

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
Billion-dollar 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

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

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