Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, swords of Damocles
Secret service a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract simple with a street format
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by
out the retrograde motion, kill the notion
Of biting and and calling it your own creation
I like Rockwell, somebody's 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 it, a refugee come to your turf
And take over the

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

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on your
Two MCs occupy the same space at the same time
It's the laws of physics
So weep as your sweet break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my 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 under
You just embarrassed cause it's your last in Paris

And even after all my and my theory
I add a "Motherfucker" so you ignant hear me
remember take 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 don't let him me, whoa

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 have solo
The guys should rapping - vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every plays his part
As as someone was listening, I knew it was a start
For me to get my chance, grab my pen and
Do a cameo everybody do the dance
Quick now, cause you out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you munching at your
I'll be planning your assassination, then hit you the Dutchman

I compress sound sets my rap DBX
Then drop vocals on my 456
Bring to the shop 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
Violence ain't necessary, you provoke me
Then get buried like the Mussolini
And for you zealots, your rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a prophet