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

[killah
The emperor, sinister, street minister
in two bars 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
Last poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive
Then I finish ya off my tremendous horse-kick
What now, nigga? look at ya, shit
Can't do it, you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth
And I know ya just 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 club and ya parties last
I like to pop shit, don't get me
I slap y'all mothafuckas y'all little kids in kindegarten
yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start
'cause y'all niggaz is up
And niggaz is really ready to get ya
I how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, with a rusty

[chorus: killah
Niggaz bop yo' to this, real shit
Call up yo' to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and
Spare new shit, priest killed it
Y! bop yo' heads to this, real shit
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's
You feel this in yo' 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 without bendin my
I shit, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz of miles an hour, towards it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck
Then I start squeezin 'til ya stop
You is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame could never
You'll never walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you stiff
Pull you my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You can't rhyme bitch, the one nine's mine bitch
The pain'll make ya change octaves
>from to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We mc's by they lyrical fitness
And dj's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the bitches 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 scud
Ready to ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the 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 emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
niggaz talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin before we blow 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 clown
Yea...