Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

Another MC lose his tonight, Lord
I beg that you to Jesus Christ, why
Oh Lord, father don't let him bury me,

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing swords of
Secret keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract simple with a street format
Gaze into the sky and measure by parallax
Check out the retrograde motion, the notion
Of biting and and calling it your own creation
I feel like Rockwell, watching me
I got no privacy whether on or at sea
And for you biting zealots, raps are cacophonic
Hypocrite, critic, but deep inside you you had the pop hit
It hurts don't it, a refugee to your turf
And over the earth

See my rhymes, are the type of fly
can only get down with my crew
And if you try, to take lines or bite
We'll you how the refugees do

Yeah, behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes
Two MCs can't the same space at the same time
against the laws of physics
So weep as your dreams break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my deck, ejects projectile
Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile
Many styles, more powerful gamma rays
My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice Polaris
You embarrassed cause it's your last tango in Paris

And even all my logic and my theory
I add a "Motherfucker" so you niggas hear me
Crew take notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you biting zealots, here's a

Another MC his life tonight, Lord
I beg that you pray to Christ, why
Oh Lord, father don't let him me, whoa

You can try but you can't divide the
These cats can't rap, mister I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl should have solo
The should stop rapping - vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but actor plays his part
As long as someone was listening, I it was a start
For me to get my chance, grab my pen and
Do a cameo while everybody do the
Quick now, cause you out of luck-a
Mr. Big, I'm gonna get you sucka
While you munching at your
I'll be your assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound sets my rap DBX
drop vocals on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the phantom dies in the
And to the younguns who gadgets
And kill six days a week, rest on the Sabbath
ain't necessary, unless you provoke me
Then get like the great Mussolini
And for you zealots, your rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a false