Luyện nghe bài hát Duel of The Iron Mic

Oh, mad one
We see your
You can never escape fate
Submit with honor to a with my son
I

I see you an old style
I wondered where you'd it from
You know well, it's yours too
Heh, by the Gods, will you me?
And do you come for?
(Duel of the Mic)

You come here, since so interested
(Duel of the Mic)
me
(In the moonlight the strikes)
(What, Bring it)

Yo, picture bloodbaths and elevator
Like these murderous rhymes tight genuine craft
Check the print, it's veterans spark the letterings
Slow MCs is waitin' for the editin'

The liquid soluble that up the chemistry
A gaseous element, that burned down your
Herbal and biblical papers
Smokin' exo-dust, square yard is plush

the screw-faced photo sessions
Facial expression impressions
Try to a shark nigga guessin'
Give shouts son here's the outcome

Cut across the semi gloss you floss
Shit is outdated, just like of Sterlings
Suede fronts, bell and tri-colored Shearlings

I ain't particular, I like vehicular homicides
Until I from Bed-Stuy
Where money don't grown on trees and thievin' MCs
Who cutthroat to rake

They can't breathe, blood splash, fast like runnin' rivers
I be whiskey in your liver

of the Iron Mic
It's that fifty-two ready to

is not a 85 affair, made clear
When the Gods get on to perform blew up
Wu's up, the crowd to self-destruct
Killer are stingin' somethin' while I reveal

Science, that's heavily by the culprit
Bombin' your barracks, with swordplay
Poison darts by the
that's laced with explosive doses

Damagin' lyrical
Lunge at the youthful offender then any contender
Testin' the murderous Masta lead to disaster
Dynamite thoughts through your barrier

Rips the
Who can the astonishin' punishin' stings to the sternum?
Shocked in the livestock
Seekin' for a serum to 'em

Adults kill for plus the young bucks bust
Duckin' handcuffs, get cut when dough rush
Out of town look shook but still pose
We move like real pros through the streets we

Bullet lace the windows in 1-6-oh
So control the avenues that's the dream sold
lobbies are graveyards for small-timers
Bitches caught in airports, keys in they

No peace, yo the mad corrupt
You get bagged up, dependin' if passin' the cut
Plus not a shorty no more, he's livin' heartless
of the charges, claims to be the hardest individual

Critical thoughts, minded
Blinded by illusion, findin' it

of the Iron Mic
It's fifty-two ready to strike
of the Iron Mic
It's that fifty-two ready to

At the height of fame and glory
They turned on one
Each struggling in vain for ultimate
In the passion and depth of their
The very art, that had them
Through such Olympian heights was
techniques, vanished