killah priest - bop your head lyrics
[intro: killah priest]
yea, yea, yea, yea.
yea, yea. f-ck that!
i’m set it off. yea, yea, ya sh-tted.
ya in some sh-t now, son.
it’s on now, mothaf-ckas can suck my d-ck.
i’m back! f-ck that sh-t!
ready to eat n-gg-z up, beat they -ss and e’rything, son.
i’ma prove this sh-t, right here.
me and my n-gg-. 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, n-gg-, 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, n-gg-? look at ya, talk sh-t
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 cl-ss
it took one second, to put yo’ -ss 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-ckas like y’all little kids in kindegarten
squeeze yo’ head till yo’ kidneys harden
now watch this, i’ma call my whole mothaf-ckin squadron
and tell n-gg-z to just start robbin
’cause y’all n-gg-z is f-cked up
and brooklyn n-gg-z is really ready to get ya
i know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
but don’t worry, ’cause i’ma st-tch ya, with a rusty screwdriver
[chorus: killah priest]
n-gg-z 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! n-gg-z 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
[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 sh-t, pin-point asteroids in orbit
then, hurl n-gg-z thousands of miles an hour, towards it
f-ckin 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
n-gg-, you think you rhyme sick? i leave you lyin stiff
pull you behind my horse til i break ya spine, b-tch
stop cryin b-tch, before i hit ya wit the iron, b-tch
you can’t rhyme b-tch, the one triple nine’s mine b-tch
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-tches 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-tch
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 hors-m-n on the back of four quadropeds
puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, mothaf-ckas!
(there it is!) so bop ya heads to that, uh (there it is!)
[chorus]
[outro: killah priest]
f-ckin p-ssy emcee’s, gon’ get a shot in the eye
y’all n-gg-z talk behind n-gg-‘s backs
y’all n-gg-z better bop ya mothaf-ckin heads before we blow it off
ya f-ckin perfume missin idiots
y’all n-gg-z always runnin, go run and tell that
go on, runnin, run behind somebody’s back
run and tell that and take these f-ckin slugs wit ya
we gon’ get ya mothaf-ckin clown
yea…
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