Luyện nghe bài hát Hip Hop

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

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, then flip-flop, clam up.
They this'll hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! ya' man come!

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

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

Rapper's rock for bread, while the gossip spread. It's only "Hot," 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 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 still looking for Ra' like, Bin Laden.
go!

Ay, yo, if you Hip-Hop, then stand up.
Reminisce, when this drop, get 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, clam up.
They fearing this'll hit and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! ya' man come!

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

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

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

anxious 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.
Even on the when I'm out of the booth.
My style's the truth; amounts to produce.
And my flow's tight when I'm about to get loose.
go!

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, then up.
Reminisce, when this drop, get up.
Any hit that's 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 hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!

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

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

I change 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 bout it!

Rap tsunami, the track's behind me. that 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, 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 blocks and clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!