Luyện nghe bài hát The Hitman

Call me the hitman, it's kinda hard, it?
most feared to become in the game, we became it
So I a masterpiece of an industry 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 beam live a meme
Screaming as Jimmy Iovine, as as Don King
Boxed into the ghetto, so be champ the bling
Industry's the arena, the internet is the
You train audible Queens, to music to fiends?
Then Def Jam, supreme team, the same
Except more critical now, digital cocaine
The goal to control individual brain
Like, Cadillacs for in the sixties
Now it's rap you sixty, for contract 360
The trick, switch the with the three sixes
Artists are left with zero, you know who received the
Which is the reason why there's only a few
Globally, the pioneers are left in a
Enough to make the individual go
Watching these old folks get fucked for they

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

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