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! fuck shit!
to eat niggaz up, beat they ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma prove this shit, here.
Me and my nigga. what!?

priest]
The emperor, chief sinister, street
Guarenteed in two bars to ya
React like a cat he arches back
Give a fake rapper a 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 with my tremendous
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 trained all year, in a karate
It one second, to put yo' ass in a body bag
>from a blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I to pop shit, don't get me started
I slap y'all like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys
Now watch this, i'ma call my whole squadron
And niggaz to just start robbin
y'all niggaz 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 stitch ya, a rusty screwdriver

[chorus: priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real
Call up yo' clicks to this, realness
You this in yo' streets and village
Spare new shit, priest killed it
Y! niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real
Call up yo' to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and
Spare 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, pin-point asteroids in
Then, hurl thousands of miles an hour, towards it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck
Then I start 'til ya stop 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 your physical frame could never sustain
probably never walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you stiff
Pull you behind my horse til I break ya spine,
Stop bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You can't rhyme bitch, the one triple mine bitch
The pain'll make ya voice octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every we kill a hostage
We judge mc's by they lyrical
And punish dj's for puttin corny stickers on mixes
the stripper 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 sub-atomic
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored
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
pussy emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz bop ya mothafuckin heads before we blow it off
Ya fuckin perfume idiots
Y'all niggaz runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run somebody's back
Run and that and take these fuckin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya clown
Yea...