[Intro: Killah Priest]
Yea, yea, yea, yea
Yea, yea - $#&@ that!

I'm set it off - yea, yea, ya %#@!ted
Ya in some %#@! now, son
It's on now, mother$#&@ers can suck my dick

I'm back! $#&@ that %#@!!
Ready to eat ^!$$%z up, beat they $$# and e'rything, son
I'ma prove this %#@!, right here

Me and my ^!$$% - what!?

[Killah Priest]

The emperor, chief sinister, street minister
Guarenteed in two bars to finish ya
React like a cat when he arches back

Give a fake rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, ^!$$%, supposed to rip
Last Poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist

Then I finish ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, ^!$$%? Look at ya, talk %#@!
Can't do it, cuz you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth

And I know ya just tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a karate class
It took one second, to put yo' $$# in a body bag

From a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I like to pop %#@!, don't get me started
I slap y'all mother$#&@ers like y'all little kids in kindergarten

Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, I'ma call my whole mother$#&@in squadron
And tell ^!$$%z to just start robbin

Cuz y'all ^!$$%z is $#&@ed up
and Brooklyn ^!$$%z is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open

But don't worry, cuz I'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver

[Chorus: Killah Priest]

^!$$%z bop yo' heads to this, real %#@!
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village

Spare that new %#@!, Priest killed it
Y! ^!$$%z bop yo' heads to this, real %#@!
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness

You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new %#@!, 'bus killed it


[Canibus]
Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a Macabeast MC and I possess the ability

To run at top speed without bendin my knees
I destory %#@!, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl ^!$$%z thousands of miles an hour, towards it

$#&@in heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I start squeezin 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues

I knock the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame could never sustain
You'll probably never walk ever again

^!$$%, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Put you in a hor!@&( heimlich til I break ya spine, (*##$
Stop cryin (*##$, before I hit ya wit the Iron, (*##$

You can't rhyme (*##$, the one triple nine's mine (*##$
The pain'll make ya voice change octaves
From low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage

We judge MC's by they lyrical fitness
And punish DJ's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper (*##$es for askin for our autograph and pictures

You'll be scared to leave the club wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's (*##$
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my sausage

I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic scud
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four hor!@&( on the back of four quadropeds

Puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mother$#&@ers!
(There it is!) So bop ya heads to that, uh (There it is!)


[Chorus]

[Outro: Killah Priest]
$#&@in #~!!@ emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all ^!$$%z talk behind ^!$$%'s backs

Y'all ^!$$%z better bop ya motha$#&@in heads before we blow it off
Ya $#&@in perfume missin idiots
Y'all ^!$$%z always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's back
Run and tell that and take these $#&@in slugs wit ya

We gon' get ya motha$#&@in clown
Yea...