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, motherf*ckers can suck my di*k
I'm back! f*ck that sh*t!
Ready to eat n*ggas up, beat they ass and e'rything, son
I'mma prove this sh*t, right here
Me and my n*gga - 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*gga, 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*gga? 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 motherf*ckers like y'all little kids in kindergarten
Squeeze yo' head till yo' kidneys harden
Now watch this, I'mma call my whole motherf*ckin squadron
And tell n*ggas to just start robbin
Cuz y'all n*ggas is f*cked up
And Brooklyn n*ggas is really ready to get ya
I know how to hit ya, and cut ya open
But don't worry, cuz I'mma stitch ya, with a rusty screwdriver
[Hook: Killah Priest]
n*ggas 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*ggas 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*ggas 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*gga, you think you rhyme sick? I leave you lyin stiff
Put you in a horsemen heimlich 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 horsemen on the back of four quadripeds
Puttin four hoof prints on ya foreheads, motherf*ckers!
(There it is!) So bop ya heads to that, uh (There it is!)
[Hook]

[Outro: Killah Priest]
f*ckin pus*y emcee's, gon' get a shot in the eye
Y'all n*ggas talk behind n*gga's backs
Y'all n*ggas better bop ya mothaf*ckin heads before we blow it off
Ya f*ckin perfume missin idiots
Y'all n*ggas 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...