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.
on now, mothafuckas can suck my dick.
I'm back! that shit!
Ready to eat niggaz up, beat ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma this shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. what!?

priest]
The emperor, chief sinister, street
Guarenteed in two to finish ya
React like a cat when he back
Give a fake a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, to rip
poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist
Then I ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, nigga? look at ya, talk
Can't do it, you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth
And I ya just tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a karate
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 y'all mothafuckas like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys
Now watch this, i'ma call my mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start
'cause y'all niggaz is up
And brooklyn niggaz is ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya
But don't worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, a rusty screwdriver

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

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a mc and I possess the ability
To run at top without bendin my knees
I destory shit, pin-point in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz of miles an hour, towards it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands 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 gums and suck the out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your frame could never sustain
You'll probably never ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I you lyin stiff
you behind my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron,
You rhyme bitch, the one triple nine's mine bitch
The pain'll ya voice change octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, hour we kill a hostage
We judge mc's by they lyrical
And punish dj's for puttin corny stickers on mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for askin for our and pictures
You'll be scared to the club wit us
You my back, I'll scratch your's bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a scud
Ready to ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the back of quadropeds
Puttin four prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya to that, uh (there it is!)

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