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Killah Priest - Bop your head lyrics

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Bop your head by Killah Priest

[Intro: Killah Priest]
Yea, yea, yea, yea.
Yea, yea. f**k that!
I'm set it off. Yea, yea, ya sh*tted.
Ya in some sh*t now, son.
It's on now, mothaf**kas can suck my dick.
I'm back! f**k that sh*t!
Ready to eat niggaz up, beat they ass and e'rything, son.
I'ma prove this sh*t, right here.
Me and my nigga. What!?
[Killah Priest]
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
I'm a vocalist, nigga, supposed to rip
Last Poet's 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 sh*t
Can't do it, cuz you ain't 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 don't last
I like to pop sh*t, don't get me started
I slap y'all mothaf**kas like y'all little kids in kindegarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, I'ma call my whole mothaf**kin squadron
And tell niggaz to just start robbin
Cuz y'all niggaz is f**ked up
and Brooklyn niggaz is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, cuz I'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver
[Chorus: Killah Priest]
Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real sh*t
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new sh*t, Priest killed it
Y! Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real sh*t
Call up yo' clicks to this, it's realness
You feel this in yo' streets and village
Spare that new sh*t, 'bus killed it
Yo, yo, yo
Yo I'm a Macabeast MC and I possess the ability
To run at top speed without bendin my knees
I destory sh*t, pin-point asteroids in orbit
Then, hurl niggaz thousands of miles an hour, towards it
f**kin 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
You'll 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, b**ch
Stop cryin b**ch, before I hit ya wit the Iron, b**ch
You can't rhyme b**ch, the one triple nine's mine b**ch
The pain'll make ya voice change octaves
>From low-pitched to high-pitched, every hour we kill a hostage
We judge MC's by they lyrical fitness
And punish DJ's for puttin corny stickers on they mixes
Smack the stripper b**ches for askin for our autograph and pictures
You'll be scared to leave the club wit us
You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's b**ch
I'll 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, mothaf**kas!
(There it is!) So bop ya heads to that, uh (There it is!)
[Outro: Killah Priest]
f**kin pussy emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all niggaz talk behind nigga's backs
Y'all niggaz better bop ya mothaf**kin heads before we blow it off
Ya f**kin perfume missin idiots
Y'all niggaz always runnin, go run and tell that
Go on, runnin, run behind somebody's back
Run and tell that and take these f**kin slugs wit ya
We gon' get ya mothaf**kin clown

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