Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

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

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

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on your
Two MCs can't occupy the same space at the same
It's the laws of physics
So weep as your sweet dreams up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my deck, ejects projectile
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top
Many styles, powerful than gamma rays
My pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice under Polaris
You just embarrassed cause it's 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 that you to Jesus Christ, why
Oh Lord, don't let him bury me, whoa

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

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