Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, swords of Damocles
Secret service a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple with a format
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by
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 privacy whether on or at sea
And for you zealots, your raps are cacophonic
Hypocrite, critic, but inside you wish you had the pop hit
It hurts it, a refugee come to your turf
And take over the

See my rhymes, are the type of fly
That can only get down with my
And if you try, to take lines or rhymes
show you how the refugees do

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

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

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

You can try but you can't the tribe
cats can't rap, mister author I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl should went solo
The guys should stop - vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every actor his part
As long as was listening, I knew 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 running out of
Playing Mr. Big, I'm gonna get you
you munching at your luncheon
I'll be planning your assassination, hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound with my rap DBX
Then drop on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the dies in the opera
And to the who carry gadgets
And kill six days a week, then rest on the
Violence ain't necessary, you provoke me
get buried like the great Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, your rap are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a prophet