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

It's, "Mr. World-Renowned," with the verbs.
One of the in streets, from the East to the West, heard.
Get greeted 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 fortune and fame, flamboyant for goods. They extorting the game, the hood.

Rapper's rock for bread, while the gossip spread. It's "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 Hip-Hoppers, while the world still looking for Ra' like, Bin Laden.
go!

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, then flip-flop, then up.
They fearing this'll hit blocks and 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 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 words like cameras in 'em.

anxious to bust, like a new fo'-pound.
So, the is reacquainted to the New York 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 unlimited amounts to produce.
And my still tight when I'm about 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 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 still hold and stay so real. My flow tight with more sites 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! 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 black Armani. Clap a body, and tap punani.

Ay, yo, if you miss Hip-Hop, then 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.
fearing this'll hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!