Luyện nghe bài hát Crosshairs

The fat is in the fire, a fryer made of wire
Gettin' sick and tired of a friggin'
Pelican with some very mangoes
A closet full of and terry cloth Kangols

Flew the coop before you hit it let me you
She did a cool hula-hoop but get any on you
It's all a big to make y'all eat pig ham
When he's on the mic like the trigger man, fig jam

Doom, not to be confused with
Especially, since the flows he used was so
Never too woozy to go study, got no clues
Like old cruddy McGillicuddy

your six, he got a lot of more tricks
Lyrics, bricks, on sticks got raw-nytics
a gift, don't get shot for kicks
With the same slick used to plot sick vicks

at a chick flick, holdin' hands
The other one on his swollen glands, a chance
That's why he kept holes in his pants
Rollin' in a old van is he told his stolen fans

Is that you Matched from hat to shoe
Snafu, snatch any brew, LaBatt's
Black Jew like that's new, me through
No latch attached, skat shoo, catch

Super, he's dice nice
And overpriced, a arm and a leg, homey or your ice
Villain, nag a old hag
Snag a by his mic cord and leave him holding the bag

Come clean, a bunch of dumb mean puffs
A keen drum buff, who fiends for more green stuff
of starvin' there be problems by the goo gobs
Aight, somebody's robbin' Lou Dobbs and them

And he's on the flight, moon bound
And makes it a point to stay away the goon pound
Got some peers, gone in the lost years
Tears and cheers, born in the

Hey Mr.
What's that you were
(It is the Hymn of Doom)

Well, I say
Nuttin' livens up a Hymn of Doom
Better than an amazing of jugs