Bop Your Head

[intro: killah priest]
Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. fuck that!
I'm set it off. yea, yea, ya shitted.
Ya in some shit now, son.
It's on now, mothafuckas can suck my dick.
I'm back! fuck that shit!
Ready to eat niggaz up, beat they ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma prove this shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. 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, nigga, 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, nigga? look at ya, talk shit
Can't do it, 'cause 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' ass in a body bag
>from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I like to pop shit, don't get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start robbin
'cause y'all niggaz is fucked up
And brooklyn niggaz is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver

[chorus: killah priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real shit
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new shit, priest killed it
Y! niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real shit
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new shit, '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 shit, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, towards it
Fuckin 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
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you behind my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You can't rhyme bitch, the one triple nine's mine bitch
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 bitches 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 bitch
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 horsemen on the back of four quadropeds
Puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya heads to that, uh (there it is!)

[chorus]

[outro: killah priest]
Fuckin pussy emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all niggaz talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin heads before we blow it off
Ya fuckin perfume missin idiots
Y'all niggaz always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's back
Run and tell that and take these fuckin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothafuckin clown
Yea...