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 keep a close as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps with a street format
Gaze the sky and measure planets by parallax
Check out the motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and calling it own creation
I feel like Rockwell, somebody's me
I got no whether on land or at sea
And for you biting zealots, your raps are
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 type of fly
That can only get down with my
And if you try, to take or bite rhymes
We'll show you how the do

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, on your rhymes
Two MCs can't the same space at the same time
against the laws of physics
So weep as your dreams break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top
Many styles, more powerful than rays
My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black 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 biting zealots, here's a

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

You can try but you can't divide the
These cats rap, mister author I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl have went solo
The should stop rapping - vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every actor 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 cameo while do the dance
Quick now, cause you running out of
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you at your luncheon
be planning your assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman

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