Killah Priest, Canibus - Bop Your Head текст песни

Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. fuck that!
Im set it off. yea, yea, ya shitted.
Ya in some shit now, son.
Its on now, mothafuckas can suck my dick.
Im back! fuck that shit!
Ready to eat niggaz up, beat they ass and erything, son.
Ima prove this shit, right here.
Me and my nigga. what?!
The emperor, chief sinister, street minister
Guarenteed in two bars to finish ya React like a cat when he arches back
Give a fake rapper a heart attack, once I start to rap
Im a vocalist, nigga, supposed to rip
Last poets told me this, hit ya in ya head wit my explosive fist
Then I finish ya off with my tremendous horse-kick
What now, nigga? look at ya, talk shit
Cant do it, cuz you aint got no teeth in ya mouth
And I know ya just tired of me, beatin ya out
Ya trained all year, in a karate class
It took one second, to put yo ass in a body bag
>from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties dont last
I like to pop shit, dont get me started
I slap yall mothafuckas like yall little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo head till yo kidneys harden
Now watch this, ima call my whole mothafuckin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start robbin
Cuz yall niggaz is fucked up And brooklyn niggaz is really ready to get ya I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But dont worry, cuz ima stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver
Niggaz bop yo heads to this, real shit
Call up yo clicks to this, its realness
You feel this in yo streets and village
Spare that new shit, priest killed it
Y! niggaz bop yo heads to this, real shit
Call up yo clicks to this, its realness
You feel this in yo streets and village
Spare that new shit, bus killed it Yo, yo, yo Yo Im a macabeast mc and I possess the ability
To run at top speed without bendin my knees
I destory shit, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, towards it Fuckin heathen, wrap my hands around ya neck region
Then I start squeezin til ya stop breathin
You weaklins is playin tug-of-war wit ya tongues
I knock the teeth out ya gums and suck the breeze out ya lungs
Hit ya wit a blow your physical frame could never sustain
Youll probably never walk ever again
Nigga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Pull you behind my horse til I break ya spine, bitch
Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch
You cant rhyme bitch, the one triple nines mine bitch
The painll make ya voice change octaves
>from low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We judge mcs by they lyrical fitness
And punish djs for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper bitches for askin for our autograph and pictures
Youll be scared to leave the club wit us You scratch my back, Ill scratch yours bitch
Ill eat ya salt-fish, if ya suck my sausage
I got an atomic sub, armed wit a sub-atomic scud
Ready to spill ya crimson-colored blood
The four horsemen on the back of four quadropeds
Puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothafuckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya heads to that, uh (there it is!)
Fuckin pussy emcees, gon get a shot in the eye
Yall niggaz talk behind niggas backs
Yall niggaz better bop ya mothafuckin heads before we blow it off
Ya fuckin perfume missin idiots
Yall niggaz always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebodys back
Run and tell that and take these fuckin slugs wit ya We gon get ya mothafuckin clown
Yea…