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 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 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!

It's, "Mr. World-Renowned," the best 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," 'cause we watched by the cops and feds. And plus, 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, this drop, get amped 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, then flip-flop, clam up.
fearing this'll hit blocks 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 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 brand new give you aneurysms.
My fans and listeners see my like there's cameras in 'em.

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

Every 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 tight when I'm about to get loose.
go!

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

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

In the gut of the beast, where don't 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 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, 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 spit Pop, get stamped "Thugs."
Hit or miss, then flip-flop, then up.
They this'll hit blocks and slam clubs.
Put yo' hands up! ya' man come!