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, then 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 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 greeted with 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. 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, while the world looking for Ra' like, Bin Laden.
go!

Ay, yo, if you Hip-Hop, then 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 spit Pop, get "Thugs."
Hit or miss, flip-flop, then clam up.
They fearing this'll hit blocks and 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 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 vision's you aneurysms.
My fans and listeners see my words like cameras in 'em.

anxious to bust, like a new fo'-pound.
So, the hood is reacquainted to the New 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 unlimited amounts to produce.
And my flow's still when I'm about to get loose.
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.

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!

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

In the gut of the beast, they 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 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 behind me. Cats 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, 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 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!