Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

Another MC his life tonight, Lord
I beg you pray to Jesus Christ, why
Oh Lord, father let him bury me, whoa

I haunt MCs Mephistopheles, bringing swords of Damocles
Secret service a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple with a street
Gaze into the sky and planets by parallax
Check out the retrograde motion, the notion
Of biting and and calling it your own creation
I feel Rockwell, somebody's watching me
I got no whether on land 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 come to turf
And take the earth

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

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

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

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

You can try but you can't the tribe
These can't rap, mister author I feel no Vibe
The says the girl should have went solo
The guys should stop rapping - like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every plays 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 do the dance
Quick now, you running out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm gonna get you
While you at your luncheon
I'll be planning assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound with my rap DBX
Then vocals on my 456 Ampex
terror to the shop of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the phantom in the opera
And to the younguns who gadgets
And kill six days a week, rest on the Sabbath
Violence necessary, unless you provoke me
get buried like the great Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, your rap styles are
No who you damage, you're still a false prophet