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, then 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!

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 killer, for the way I stretch words.

Some of us love to flow 'til the 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," '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, 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 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 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 New-School slang. The boomerang with the true blue flame. through your brain, like smoking "poon-shoong-pang."

galactic; the next 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 like there's cameras in 'em.

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

Every verse is a mountain of 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 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, clam up.
fearing this'll 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, 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, where they don't dwell. (They don't here.)
The gut of the streets, but don't sell. (They gets nothin'.)
I still mics 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, 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, then 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.
They fearing this'll hit and slam clubs.
Put yo' up! Here ya' man come!