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

[killah
The emperor, chief sinister, minister
Guarenteed in two to finish ya
React like a cat he arches back
a fake rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, to rip
Last poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my fist
Then I finish ya off with my horse-kick
What now, nigga? at ya, talk shit
Can't do it, 'cause you ain't got no teeth in ya
And I know ya just of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a class
It 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
I like to pop shit, get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys
Now watch this, call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start
'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

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

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a macabeast mc and I possess the
To run at top without bendin my knees
I shit, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck
Then I start squeezin 'til ya 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 physical frame could never sustain
You'll probably never ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you behind my til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You can't rhyme bitch, the one nine's mine bitch
The pain'll make ya voice change
>from to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We judge mc's by they 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 leave the wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
Ready to ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the of four quadropeds
four hoof 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
niggaz talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya heads before we blow it off
Ya fuckin perfume missin
Y'all niggaz always runnin, go run and tell
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's
Run and tell and take these fuckin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya clown
Yea...