Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing swords of
service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple a street format
Gaze into the sky and measure by parallax
Check out the motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and calling it your own
I feel like Rockwell, somebody's 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 don't it, a refugee come to your turf
And take the earth

See my rhymes, are the type of fly
can only get down with my crew
And if you try, to lines 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 space at the same time
against the laws of physics
So weep as your dreams break up like Eurythmics
Rap my tape deck, ejects projectile
Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile
Many styles, more powerful than gamma
My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice Polaris
You just embarrassed cause it's last tango in Paris

And after all my logic and my theory
I add a "Motherfucker" so you ignant niggas me
Crew remember notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you biting zealots, a quote

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

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

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