Luyện nghe bài hát Bop Your Head

[intro: priest]
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 prove shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. what!?

priest]
The emperor, chief sinister, street
in two bars to finish ya
React like a cat when he arches
Give a fake rapper a attack, once 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 horse-kick
What now, look at ya, talk shit
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 class
It took one second, to put yo' ass in a bag
>from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't
I like to pop shit, get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all little in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' harden
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And niggaz to just start robbin
'cause niggaz is fucked up
And niggaz is really ready to get ya
I how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, i'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver

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

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a mc and I possess the ability
To run at top speed without my knees
I destory shit, asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of an hour, towards it
heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I start 'til ya stop breathin
You is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya gums and the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your frame could never sustain
You'll probably never walk again
Nigga, you you rhyme 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 bitch, the one triple nine's mine bitch
The pain'll ya voice change octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a
We judge mc's by they lyrical
And punish dj's for puttin stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper for askin for our autograph and pictures
You'll be to leave the club wit us
You scratch my back, scratch your's bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
Ready to spill ya blood
The horsemen 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: priest]
Fuckin pussy emcee's, get a shot in the eye
Y'all talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin heads before we it off
Ya fuckin perfume idiots
Y'all niggaz always runnin, go run and that
Go on, runnin, run behind back
Run and tell and take these fuckin slugs wit ya
We get ya mothafuckin clown
Yea...