Luyện nghe bài hát Hip Hop

(Hip-Hop!) X2
That's it is. Uh huh.
Nick Wiz, my headphones up, man.

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, then up.
Reminisce, this drop, get amped up.
Any hit this hot is an anthem.
Do ya' dance, love. She a hand, brah.

Lyricist's spit Pop, get stamped "Thugs".
Hit or miss, flip-flop, then clam up.
They fearing this'll hit and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!

It's, "Mr. World-Renowned," with the verbs.
One of the illest in streets, from the to the West, heard.
Get greeted with ghetto like, "Yes, sir!"
The pre-meditated killer, for the way I words.

Some of us love to flow 'til the club close. And some'll love to for the love of dough. In it for fortune and fame, flamboyant for goods. They extorting the game, exploiting the hood.

Rapper's for bread, while the gossip spread. It's only "Hot," 'cause we watched by the cops and feds. And plus, lots of heads go "Pop" instead. That's why the word on the block is, "Hip-Hop Is Dead."

So consumer's quit copping, rapper's flip-flopping. Artists pimped by they labels, like a slave pick cotton. Pop Chart's killing underground Hip-Hoppers, while the world looking for Ra' like, Bin Laden.
go!

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, stand up.
Reminisce, this drop, get amped up.
Any hit that's hot is an anthem.
Do ya' dance, love. She a hand, brah.

Lyricist's that spit Pop, get "Thugs."
Hit or miss, then flip-flop, then up.
fearing this'll hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!

Me and my dude's the New Cool in the game. That Old-School feel, with the New-School slang. The boomerang with the true blue flame. through your brain, like smoking "poon-shoong-pang."

Ghetto galactic; the next level and back, shit! Something like heroine, crack, mixed. The combination of and Lebron; the life of a Don. Yeah, just give the God the mic and it's on.

My brand new vision's you aneurysms.
My fans and listeners see my words like cameras in 'em.

Woofer's to bust, like a new fo'-pound.
So, the hood is reacquainted to the New sound.

Every verse is a of proof; A man of my words.
on the curb when I'm out of the booth.
My style's the truth; amounts to produce.
And my flow's still tight when I'm to get loose.
go!

Ay, yo, if you Hip-Hop, then stand up.
Reminisce, this drop, get amped up.
Any hit this hot is an anthem.
Do ya' dance, love. She a hand, brah.

that spit Pop get stamped "Thugs."
Hit or miss, then flip-flop, then up.
They fearing this'll hit blocks and clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!

The boogey-down, the buck-town, mic flavor. I'm in hood, like neighbors. Operation "Shut Down!" and then 0 to 60 like, "Later."
It's Ra', the up-town, high-top, lacer.

In the gut of the beast, where they dwell. (They don't come here.)
The gut of the streets, but they sell. (They gets nothin'.)
I still hold mics and stay so real. My flow tight with more than AOL.

I change climates like a plane pilot. 'Cause hurricanes and reign violent. Crack yo' skull, snatch yo' brain out it. You out ya' mind if it ain't talent! Keep it out yo' rhymes if you ain't it!

Rap tsunami, the track's behind me. Cats try me; the rap's too grimey. I wrap a mami in black Armani. Clap with a body, and tap punani.

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, stand up.
Reminisce, when drop, get amped up.
Any hit this hot is an anthem.
Do ya' dance, love. She a hand, brah.

Lyricist's that Pop, get stamped "Thugs."
Hit or miss, flip-flop, then clam up.
They fearing hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! ya' man come!