Luyện nghe bài hát Blaze'in Microphones

Im sweet cinnamon when Im spittin this lyrical venum,
rappers the blues like denim,
when Im killin em, fillin em with syllable,
of adrenaline spillin off my spiritual tongue,
then em like penicillin,
plus Im trying to reach the like Gilligan,
God the spiritual healin, will stop the drug dealing,
and killing, Im feeling like Im ready to loose my mind,
so many bullets be flying, and be dying,
make a difference, for instance, the inmates in prisons make bad decisions,
for lack of wisdom, so I cut open, and make incisions,
fill em with spiritualism, tell em about the one arisen,
how they can be in they spirit, and have they sins forgiven,
by the one who on the cross,
'cause even when were into all their drinking and smoking,
he them even while they were lost,
so please listen to me, and dissin a G,
'cause I got they on how yall can be free.

Blazing microphones, nothing but that heat from the west coast,
Chase beats, Bone lyrics like Corleone,
we be running things so act you all know,
Boneyard be stopped now.

Im not a witness, but I witness for Jehovah,
back in the day, the 1st to slang and the baking soda,
but nowadays, I preachin the word,
like a dealers, slangin; holy rock on the curb,
eyes off the holy ghost, contact smoke,
tripppin off my rims, crush eyes and my rope,
plus Im gifted flows and wrist is frozen,
I thought you all knew dawg, what, Im chosen,
highly favored, with the elite,
stand apart dawg, anointed, bring the word to the streets,
aint entertainin the the fame or set you claimin,
tha of namin, unless the name Im naming
is Jesus on the and reining, painting a picture for Gs bangin,
og how the Lord can save em, train em like a Raven, engraving,
the name of across they heart, 'cause its breakin,
Satan is waitin, anticipatin, and hatin,
but once trapped they's no escapin'

I been doing this for 12 years, it aint yall,
to make hit that are off the hizzy yall,
especially when them bustas sippin on haterade,
behind your back and trying to stop you on a day to day,
I dont music for em playa hatas anyway,
this is for and thugs, thats sippin on the Alize,
run a ways and locked down in prison,
why them, the ones in need of a physician,
and I know the perfect yall
that can heal you you answer to the alter call,
he can, all the emptiness and void in your heart,
thats why I out of a need and not love of the art,
so listen, my only mission is fishing,
so the rapture happens, faces will be on the back of milk cartons missing.