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, stand up.
Reminisce, when this drop, get 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, then flip-flop, clam up.
fearing this'll hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!

It's, "Mr. World-Renowned," the best verbs.
One of the in streets, from the East 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 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 rock for bread, while the gossip spread. 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 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 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, then up.
They fearing this'll hit and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! 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. Chew through your brain, smoking "poon-shoong-pang."

Ghetto galactic; the level and back, shit! Something 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 vision's you aneurysms.
My fans and listeners see my words like there's in 'em.

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

verse is a mountain 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 still tight I'm about to get loose.
go!

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, stand up.
Reminisce, when drop, get amped 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 fearing hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! 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."
Ra', the up-town, high-top, Nike lacer.

In the gut of the beast, where they 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 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. 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 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 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!