Luyện nghe bài hát Whutcha Want?

I gets banned if I do gets banned if I
So I will and sometimes I won't
Puff mad stick crack a forty the back
Sit fat and relax and my attack
Not the one to test I posess mad
My buddha was one bird in the nest
Chills with my steady bouncing in jeeps
On the New York streets hittin concrete
I'm the man untestable, the extraterrestrial flow
Fo'-fifty-fix celo, pop the top off the forty bottle
I'm not the one to follow, I'm not the model
tips in my clips money grip and my Glock
Only spits when I to the bullshit
So give me to breathe and get up off DEEZ
And save the confessions for
Plus I need to hear no sorrow
Eff it, the sun will still out tomorrow
Long as I'm breathing, needing, even like
Achieving, gettin some and
Representin lovely, Boogie Down major
With the flavor, I made ya, daze ya
My behavior is mad ill if you
You what I want

(Whutcha want Nine?) Fat for my rides
(So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my
(So whutcha want Nine?) A ill
And my name up in lights,

let you know how I feel on the real
I pack steel it's like a jungle makes me wonder my eel is
the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher
Temper like Rowdy Rowdy Piper, hyper a viper
I'ma strike if I got it for the jugular
you like a copper
Stoppah, stoppah, but you stop me
Just clock me, just watch me up the spot G
Came a long way from, in the day
We did it for no pay, rhymin hit the hay and
Sleep, wake up, write rhyme
Hit the after dark drop the beat one time
That's when shit was real, no phonies no
the homemade mics and wheels of steel
Backup the roof, amp plugged in the street light
right, jam over a street fight
Back to the lab I my pen and pad
Raw lyrics a fleuredoscad
Had no dinero, get fo' chicken wings and rice
A ounce a nickel bag to get nice
And now I make a million, and still son
It makes the heart pump, you what I want

(Whutcha want Nine?) Fat for my rides
(So want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines
(So want Nine?) A ill posse
And my name up in lights,

Be like Elmer J. Fudd with the and the yacht
Brand new Glock hip-hop
Remote boombox lampin on my dresser
The God ain't no as the pressure comes to test ya
Hundred pound weight around the neck,
Nuff treasons nuff reasons Philip Bailey
Can't get enough of that stuff
Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is
up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal
Speed like Racer treat you a wack rhyme and erase ya
Right off the I roll a big fat spliff
on the hip, Heineken in the grip shit I'm ready
Get the for the jeep, let's bounce
avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the
Funkmaster Flex in the deck
I'm in effect I move my neck while Son wreck
Oh what a feeling, I'm on the wheels of and
I snatch up some skins for some sexual
Erything's copasctetic, groovy hip-hop moves me
Soothes me, I'm off like an uzi
But first steps a doozy and me
Now I'm choosy before I start to freak it a floozy
I wanna get big get paid true
You know what I

(Whutcha want Nine?) Fat for my rides
(So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my
(So whutcha want Nine?) A ill
And my name up in lights,