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

[killah
The emperor, sinister, street minister
Guarenteed in two bars to ya
React a cat when he arches back
Give a fake rapper a attack, once I start to rap
I'm a vocalist, nigga, to rip
poet's told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist
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 all year, in a karate class
It one second, to put yo' ass in a body bag
>from a shotty blast, I up in ya club and ya parties don't last
I to pop shit, don't get me started
I slap y'all mothafuckas like y'all little kids in
yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now this, i'ma call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just robbin
y'all niggaz is fucked up
And brooklyn niggaz is really to get ya
I how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, a rusty screwdriver

[chorus: killah
bop yo' heads to this, real shit
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's
You feel this in yo' and village
that new shit, priest killed it
Y! niggaz bop yo' to this, real shit
up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel in yo' streets and village
that 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, asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, it
Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck
Then I start 'til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya gums and the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your frame could never sustain
You'll probably walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I you lyin stiff
you behind my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You rhyme bitch, the one triple nine's mine bitch
The pain'll ya voice change octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we a hostage
We judge mc's by they lyrical
And punish dj's for 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 scratch my back, scratch your's bitch
I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored
The four horsemen on the back of quadropeds
Puttin four hoof 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 backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin before we blow it off
Ya fuckin missin idiots
Y'all niggaz always runnin, go run and tell
Go on, runnin, run somebody's back
Run and tell that and take these slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothafuckin
Yea...