[Killah Priest:]
I spit fire; exist in worlds that may be higher than yours
Little boys run play with your toys
Fingerprints in the universe, I move asteroids
Paranoid, I go deeper than you, pass a void
Rap, enjoy art full of secrets, come rappers, get destroyed
They call me the King of the Heathens, for reasons
I start squeezin', buss off rhymes, like a couple of nines
Cup full of wine; sip the niggas that's trippin'
My mind's a millennium, shootouts in space and Amphibians
Plenty guns, African race and half Indian
One third Phoenix bird and Reptilian
Dark-ages, new-age, call me Mantanian
Chair turn into a throne, I'm Justinian
Ruthless, fist turn into stone, I kill many men
Nine-hundred souls of God
Seven universes of sun, moon, the globe and the star
It's in my heart, so of course in God's form
When I spit, niggas just don't hear my shit, they log on
Check the inbox, when I press in, it's Hip-Hop
Homepage of rage, more things to watch
I send 'em a link, the more they think...
Pop-up, hard luck, bars of snuff, the screen touch
Within my head is all a jury of King Tut
I hard and I jerk off my pen, my ink bust
I cobra clutch the mic with incredible grip
I spit unforgettable shit, till your edible click
Your Beretta's don't spit, you have barrette and some hips
No homo, f*ck around, you'll be in medical stip
The rhyme pump shotty, gave 'em a hell of a lift
It's the 'Psychic World of Walter Reed'
All can bleed, force from, tank top tattoos
But his name is Shirley, early
Wu Hoo Freestyle Video (MV)
Killah Priest - Wu Hoo Freestyle Lyrics
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[Killah Priest:]
I spit fire; exist in worlds that may be higher than yours
Little boys run play with your toys
Fingerprints in the universe, I move asteroids
Paranoid, I go deeper than you, pass a void
Rap, enjoy art full of secrets, come rappers, get destroyed
They call me the King of the Heathens, for reasons
I start squeezin', buss off rhymes, like a couple of nines
Cup full of wine; sip the niggas that's trippin'
My mind's a millennium, shootouts in space and Amphibians
Plenty guns, African race and half Indian
One third Phoenix bird and Reptilian
Dark-ages, new-age, call me Mantanian
Chair turn into a throne, I'm Justinian
Ruthless, fist turn into stone, I kill many men
Nine-hundred souls of God
Seven universes of sun, moon, the globe and the star
It's in my heart, so of course in God's form
When I spit, niggas just don't hear my shit, they log on
Check the inbox, when I press in, it's Hip-Hop
Homepage of rage, more things to watch
I send 'em a link, the more they think...
Pop-up, hard luck, bars of snuff, the screen touch
Within my head is all a jury of King Tut
I hard and I jerk off my pen, my ink bust
I cobra clutch the mic with incredible grip
I spit unforgettable shit, till your edible click
Your Beretta's don't spit, you have barrette and some hips
No homo, f*ck around, you'll be in medical stip
The rhyme pump shotty, gave 'em a hell of a lift
It's the 'Psychic World of Walter Reed'
All can bleed, force from, tank top tattoos
But his name is Shirley, early
I spit fire; exist in worlds that may be higher than yours
Little boys run play with your toys
Fingerprints in the universe, I move asteroids
Paranoid, I go deeper than you, pass a void
Rap, enjoy art full of secrets, come rappers, get destroyed
They call me the King of the Heathens, for reasons
I start squeezin', buss off rhymes, like a couple of nines
Cup full of wine; sip the niggas that's trippin'
My mind's a millennium, shootouts in space and Amphibians
Plenty guns, African race and half Indian
One third Phoenix bird and Reptilian
Dark-ages, new-age, call me Mantanian
Chair turn into a throne, I'm Justinian
Ruthless, fist turn into stone, I kill many men
Nine-hundred souls of God
Seven universes of sun, moon, the globe and the star
It's in my heart, so of course in God's form
When I spit, niggas just don't hear my shit, they log on
Check the inbox, when I press in, it's Hip-Hop
Homepage of rage, more things to watch
I send 'em a link, the more they think...
Pop-up, hard luck, bars of snuff, the screen touch
Within my head is all a jury of King Tut
I hard and I jerk off my pen, my ink bust
I cobra clutch the mic with incredible grip
I spit unforgettable shit, till your edible click
Your Beretta's don't spit, you have barrette and some hips
No homo, f*ck around, you'll be in medical stip
The rhyme pump shotty, gave 'em a hell of a lift
It's the 'Psychic World of Walter Reed'
All can bleed, force from, tank top tattoos
But his name is Shirley, early