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

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

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

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a macabeast mc and I possess the
To run at top speed bendin my knees
I destory shit, pin-point asteroids in
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, 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 out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical could never sustain
You'll probably never walk again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin
Pull you behind my horse til I ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron,
You can't 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 lyrical fitness
And punish dj's for puttin corny stickers on they
Smack the stripper bitches for askin for our autograph and
You'll be scared to the club wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my
I got an sub, armed wit a sub-atomic scud
Ready to spill ya blood
The four on the back of four 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, get a shot in the eye
Y'all niggaz behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin heads before we it off
Ya fuckin perfume missin
Y'all niggaz runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's
Run and that and take these fuckin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothafuckin
Yea...