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

priest]
The emperor, sinister, street minister
Guarenteed in two bars to ya
React a cat when he arches back
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 ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, look at ya, talk shit
Can't do it, you ain't got no teeth in ya mouth
And I know ya tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a class
It took one second, to put yo' ass in a bag
a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I to pop shit, don't get me started
I slap mothafuckas like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' harden
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just robbin
'cause niggaz is fucked up
And brooklyn is really ready to get ya
I how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver

[chorus: killah
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, shit
Call up yo' clicks to this, realness
You this 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 feel this in yo' streets and
Spare that new shit, killed it

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a macabeast mc and I the ability
To run at top without bendin my knees
I destory shit, pin-point in orbit
Then, hurl thousands of miles an hour, towards it
heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I start squeezin 'til ya breathin
You is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya
Hit ya wit a blow your frame could never sustain
You'll never walk 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 triple nine's mine
The pain'll make ya voice octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every we kill a hostage
We judge mc's by they fitness
And dj's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for askin for our autograph and
You'll be to leave the club wit us
You scratch my back, I'll your's bitch
eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my sausage
I got an sub, armed wit a sub-atomic scud
to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the back of four
Puttin four hoof on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya to that, uh (there it is!)

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