Lyrics The Letter 1, 2, and 3 - Killah Priest

The Letter 1, 2, and 3

Beautifully displays of art
Priest the playing turf for plankton
Embrace pens and engrave my mark
My symbols the owl, the virgin with child
The golden crown will caress it
With Stars of David your god spit bars that’s sacred
It Solomon reign, just follow, he’s king
Who dares challenge chalice?
You fools are spiritually empowered
Lyrically get my pen and pallets
I’m the black old fellow
From where they sell crack in broken ghettoes
'Til they boil the coke and kettle settles
The Messiah, I speak on higher levels, shots are echo
The old rebel with torn armour, brush off the rose petal
My gold will nestle in diamond bezels
When I’m rhyming from the Hell hole I wrestle devils
'Til I’m angel down to poet
I’m flow’s sick, the mic can taste my cold spit
Priest, I hold it down a letter, nigga
It’s the Letter
Yo fuck Bush, we inside the __ cook book
An Amazon train, complements from the cook
America’s a boiling pot, shootouts people call the cops
Everyday she’s jumping off, remember freeze tax summer salts
Off the magic nowadays it’s free for police captains
My summer starts from each other when ours gats clapping
Quiet when the Priest is rapping
Read the close caption, I bring you close to the action
When shit be popping off, funerals and closed caskets
Dark as the holster on my ratchet
Now let’s toast on the flow no one else can match with
Or think ill as me, my brains ability for the graphic
With streets colour with tranquillity
I’m the ___ and y’all grant y’all agree
I used to be a Killa Bee but now I’m just a wildebeest
I used to be on Willerby
Now I make robes and thrones out in Sicily
Fuck selling crack, I want a continent on the map
The CIA was invented to oppress blacks
And Jesus was black, the Lost Tribes are black
Check it, my vibe is back and watch me ride on this track
It’s Killah Priest, the illest from the East Coast
Motherfuckers get deep throat like Sav Killz said
'I'm old school like a pea coat', niggas
Shorties on our blocks said our rocks better from cops
When will this shit stop we need a break, freedom debate
Our fates lies in their hands
Malcolm X was a powerful man, the truth seekers hours at hand
Guns is got to be real by Cheryl Lin
Marylyn Banks are closing
Flows, ___ and peaches golden
These are hood rhymes over break beats by Sheik
It’s good times, the coats we wore back then were made from sheep
It’s Priest the palm reader
Two jars of reefer and the bullet ether
It’s not over bottom leader Holloway
Revolvers are sprayed, dollars get paid to hit men
Twenty g’s on that judges head
And fuck Arnold Schwarzenegger I want that arse dead
Yeah, through the Heatwaves and 'Boogie Nights'
Until the LA surgeons kiss, tuck you goodnight
Priest, the Edgar Allen Poe with the flow
Raw as that shit Tony Montana put up his nose
And what he took shots for and what God took Pac for
And what dealers cook rocks for
I’m 'The Offering'
I’m in the hood like being fried rice and four wings, nahmean
Uh it’s Priest, I’m in the hood like fried rice and four wings