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 some now, son.
It's on now, mothafuckas can my dick.
I'm back! fuck shit!
to eat niggaz 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 back
Give a 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 wit my explosive fist
Then I finish ya off with my horse-kick
What now, nigga? at ya, talk shit
Can't do it, 'cause you 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 don't last
I like to pop shit, don't get me
I slap y'all like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell to just start robbin
'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 ya, with a rusty screwdriver

[chorus: priest]
bop yo' heads to this, real 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' clicks to this, it's
You feel this in yo' and village
Spare that new shit, killed it

Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a mc and I possess the ability
To run at top speed without bendin my
I shit, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands ya neck region
Then I start 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is 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 physical frame could never
probably never walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I you lyin stiff
you behind my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron,
You can't rhyme bitch, the one nine's mine bitch
The pain'll make ya voice change
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a
We judge mc's by lyrical fitness
And dj's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for for our autograph and pictures
You'll be to leave the club wit us
You my back, I'll scratch your's bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
to spill 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, gon' get a in the eye
Y'all niggaz talk behind nigga's
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin before we blow it off
Ya fuckin missin idiots
niggaz always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's
Run and tell that and these fuckin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothafuckin
Yea...