Luyện nghe bài hát Bop Your Head

[intro: killah
Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. that!
I'm set it off. yea, yea, ya shitted.
Ya in some now, son.
It's on now, mothafuckas can my dick.
I'm back! fuck shit!
Ready to eat niggaz up, beat ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma prove shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. what!?

priest]
The emperor, chief sinister, minister
in two bars to finish ya
React like a cat when he back
a fake rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, to rip
Last told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist
I finish ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, nigga? look at ya, shit
do it, 'cause you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth
And I know ya just tired of me, ya out
Ya all year, in a karate class
It one second, to put yo' ass in a body bag
>from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya and ya parties don't last
I like to pop shit, get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys
Now watch this, call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And niggaz to just start robbin
'cause y'all is fucked up
And brooklyn is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya
But don't worry, 'cause i'ma ya, with a rusty screwdriver

killah priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real
Call up yo' to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' and village
Spare that new shit, priest it
Y! niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real
up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel in yo' streets and village
Spare new shit, 'bus killed it

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a mc and I possess the ability
To run at top speed bendin my knees
I destory shit, pin-point asteroids in
Then, niggaz thousands of miles an hour, towards it
heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I squeezin 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin tug-of-war wit ya
I knock the teeth out ya and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical could never sustain
You'll probably never walk ever
Nigga, you think you sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron,
You can't rhyme bitch, the one triple mine bitch
The pain'll ya voice change octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, hour we kill a hostage
We judge by they lyrical fitness
And punish dj's for puttin corny stickers on they
Smack the stripper for askin for our autograph and pictures
You'll be scared to leave the wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the of four quadropeds
Puttin four hoof on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya to that, uh (there it is!)

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