Dead Street Scrolls

(Intro: Killah Priest)
Black Market bitch, it's crazy, the album's here
Right there, Black Market, Black Market
Walk with us, yeah, the album's here now
Happenin' now son, it's happening now, yeah

(Chorus: Killah Priest, Hell Razah)
The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry
The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that ride
The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry
The dead street scrolls

(Hell Razah)
Hold my hands, let's take a stroll
It was written like the dead street scrolls, now the truth unfolds
They thought I came here to empty the chrome, they envy my soul
Diablo, off of the world, and tempt me with hoes
My holy blood drift from a rose, sweet Jerusalem
My home sweet home, where the Christ was grown
Now it's BK where dice is thrown, here's a light
Check your 25 to life, over ice cream cones
What you know about this microphone, royalties and the right to own
When you're platinum and gold, too many followers and no leaders
We in the time, the young souls need us, to be our brother's keeper
It's Abel and Kain, way before labels and fame
Brothers cryin' from the blood stains left in the rain
Teardrops over open caskets, I'm just a genius in a straight jacket
Don't have me write it backwards

(Killah Priest)
I reinvented myself, restored what was before
The Heavy Mental instrumentals explored
Vintage, Black Market prophets, we the heart of the projects
See it in a sentence, this is some trap with mob debts
Street fillers, from dealers to killers
And I went buck, fifties across they face
This goes out, to hood niggaz that lost they way
Mom's flippin' at the welfare office, thought she was burned
We got plans to take the whole hood corporate
Dollar bills with my homey's face printed on 'em
We neighborhood wino's, the new prophets since Donald Goines
Priest, the streets real, feel what I speak
This is more than just a hook or a Neptunes beat
Pharrell, no disrespect, but my eyes looked in the spec's
I ain't a judge, no hidden agenda, yo, it should be 'I am a thug'
Is love, I laugh til tears fill up my lids
Kick the rockets out the closet, and go out on my wig
I spit the realest words, comin' from the hood
C-4, cock bells, Market is all good
Got the negro's written in the dead street scrolls
Pictures of gangstas with guns, in hood street clothes
We arm wrestle with the devil, I broke and seen whole
When our others box with God, I let my heat go
For the people like Huey P., we the lost generation
Til the preacher reads, our human plee

(Chorus)

(Tragedy Khadafi)
I write novels like Claude Brown
Manchild in a Promised Land, all the hood children gather round
Sun Tzu gave me The Art of War
Robert Greene gave me The 48 Laws, The Art of Seduction is nothing
Osato told a life story, Alex Haley showed me some Roots
My ancestors, those who came before me
Elijah taught me how to eat to live, not to live to eat
From the pig intestine, deduction of feet
King David gave me the book of psalms
Huey Newton taught me how to a man, stand up and bear arms
Learn the, the ways of the prophet, from Kalilda Brahm
Mohammed Alai Salam, from the Qu'ran
Iceberg Smith taught me how to move like a don
William Cooper showed me the pale horses
I studied with John Bay, secret sciences and forces
Exist all around us, my soldiers never fold
Black Market require readin' the dead street scrolls

(Chorus)

(Outro: Killah Priest)
The desert eagles.