Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing of Damocles
service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple with a street
Gaze into the sky and measure by parallax
out the retrograde motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and calling it own creation
I feel Rockwell, somebody's watching me
I got no whether on land or at sea
And for you biting zealots, your raps are
Hypocrite, critic, but deep you wish you had the pop hit
It hurts don't it, a come to your turf
And take the earth

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

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on rhymes
Two MCs occupy the same space at the same time
It's against the laws of
So weep as your sweet break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects
Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile
Many styles, more powerful than rays
My pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice under
You just cause it's your last tango in Paris

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

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

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

I compress sound sets my rap DBX
Then vocals on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the dies in the opera
And to the younguns who carry
And kill six a week, then rest on the Sabbath
Violence necessary, unless you provoke me
Then get buried like the great
And for you zealots, your rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, you're a false prophet