Bop Your Head

[intro: killah priest] Yea, yea, yea, yea. Yea, yea. f**k that! I'm set it off. yea, yea, ya shitted. Ya in some shit now, son. It's on now, mothaf**kas can s*ck my d**k. I'm back! f**k that shit! Ready to eat niggaz up, beat they a*s and e'rything, son. I'ma prove this shit, 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 shit Can't do it, 'cause 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 cla*s It took one second, to put yo' a*s in a body bag >from a shotty blast, I walk up in ya club and ya parties don't last I like to pop shit, 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 'cause 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, 'cause i'ma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver [chorus: killah priest] Niggaz bop yo' heads to this, real shit Call up yo' clicks to this, it's 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, it's realness You feel this in yo' streets and village Spare that new shit, 'bus killed it [canibus] 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 shit, 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 s*ck 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, bitch Stop cryin bitch, before I hit ya wit the iron, bitch You can't rhyme bitch, the one triple nine's mine bitch 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 bitches 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 bitch I'll eat ya salt-fish, if ya s*ck 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!) [chorus] [outro: killah priest] f**kin pus*y 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 Yea...