Luyện nghe bài hát The Hitman

Call me the hitman, it's kinda hard, it?
What feared to become in the game, we became it
So I painted a masterpiece of an tainted
It's not a lip of grass, so graphic, frame it
The hitman, say it again, the
The hitman, uh, say it again, say, say it

Some people say I'm extreme, broadcast a live through a meme
Screaming as Iovine, as corrupt as Don King
Boxed the ghetto, so be champ with the bling
Industry's the arena, the is the ring
You audible Queens, to sling music to fiends?
Then Def Jam, supreme team, the same
Except more critical now, it's digital
The goal to every individual brain
Like, Cadillacs for contracts in the
Now it's rap you sixty, for contract 360
The trick, switch the with the three sixes
Artists are left zero, you know who received the riches
Which is the why there's only a few moguls
Globally, the are left in a chokehold
Enough to make the individual go
Watching these old folks get for they vocals

If you are not performing for radio rotation
What's the ratio for radio play at station?
If your not to play, the record is dead
Puts a whole new spin on radio
got a thousand plays a week and we selling the same units (uh)
Put they best rep up, they couldn't stand to it (woo)
People wanna relate, wanna connect to it
Here's a lyrical check, is this enough for you to to it, huh?
Or do you more clues?
Should I be more black? Will that change your
Should I die my blonde? Should my eyes be blue? (come on)
Just a of questions I mustered up for you (uh)
But these eleven and shoes, you can't fill those
I made head lines/headlines like pillows
And get banned from television and marketing
Targeting music politics, provoking it

The hit (*gunshot*), man, kinda hard
Let's release sex tapes, so we can stars
Nude photographs of titties and
Increase our buzz, impress the (uh)
I thought she was to be so passive
Now you just another ass in the air an asterisk
Cell phone songs, you never be classic
You sold soul, they call that remastering
B, why does it to be so drastic?
Chemical skin peel, makes the song plastic
Follow the program man, to the clap-tics
Twelve to eighteen, you know the
These want popcorn, they want slapstick
Probably the chorus goes tisket,
But I'm not willing to it and mask it (come on)
This might take a couple of for you to grasp it
The hit (*gunshot, drops*)