Luyện nghe bài hát Blaze'in Microphones

Im sweet like cinnamon when Im spittin this venum,
rappers the blues like denim,
when Im em, fillin em with these syllable,
synonyms of adrenaline spillin off my tongue,
then em like penicillin,
plus Im to reach the lost like Gilligan,
God the spiritual healin, will stop the drug dealing,
and killing, because Im feeling Im ready to loose my mind,
so bullets be flying, and rydas 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 the one thats arisen,
how can be free in they spirit, and have they sins forgiven,
by the one who on the cross,
'cause even when they were all their drinking and smoking,
he loved them even while they lost,
so please listen to me, and stop a G,
'cause I got they remedy on how can be free.

Blazing microphones, bringing nothing but heat from the west coast,
Chase beats, Bone like Vito Corleone,
we be things so act like you all know,
Boneyard cant be now.

Im not a Jehovah witness, but I for Jehovah,
in the day, the 1st to slang cane and the baking soda,
but nowadays, I like the word,
a drug dealers, slangin; holy rock on the curb,
eyes blurred off the ghost, contact smoke,
gotcha 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,
thats apart dawg, anointed, bring the word to the streets,
aint entertainin the the fame or set you claimin,
tha game of namin, unless the Im naming
is Jesus on the throne and reining, a picture for Gs bangin,
og how the Lord can save em, em like a Baltimore Raven, engraving,
the of Jesus across they heart, 'cause its breakin,
Satan is waitin, anticipatin, and hatin,
but they trapped they's no escapin'

I doing this for 12 years, it aint easy yall,
to make hit records that are off the yall,
especially when them sippin on that haterade,
talkin behind back and trying to stop you on a day to day,
I dont make for em playa hatas anyway,
this is for killers and thugs, sippin on the Alize,
run a ways and essays locked 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, fill all the emptiness and void in heart,
thats why I rhyme out of a need and not of the art,
so listen, my mission is soul fishing,
so when the rapture happens, faces be on the back of milk cartons missing.