Luyện nghe bài hát Hip Hop

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

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, 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 Pop, get stamped "Thugs".
Hit or miss, flip-flop, then clam up.
They fearing this'll hit and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! 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 gestures like, "Yes, sir!"
The pre-meditated killer, for the way I words.

Some of us love to 'til the club close. And some'll love to blow for the love of dough. In it for fortune 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 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, the world still looking for Ra' like, Bin Laden.
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 that Pop, get stamped "Thugs."
Hit or miss, then flip-flop, clam up.
They 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 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! like heroine, crack, mixed. The combination of Mike and Lebron; the life of a Don. Yeah, just give the God the mic and it's on.

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

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

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

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!

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

I change climates like a plane pilot. 'Cause 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. Cats that try me; the rap's too grimey. I wrap a mami in Armani. Clap with a body, and tap punani.

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

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