Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

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

See my rhymes, are the type of fly
That can only get with my crew
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 space at the same time
against the laws of physics
So weep as your sweet break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my deck, ejects projectile
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top
styles, more powerful than gamma rays
My grammar pays, like Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm mango juice under Polaris
You embarrassed 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
remember take notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you zealots, here's a quote

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

You can try but you divide the tribe
These can't rap, mister author I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl should have went
The guys stop rapping - vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every actor plays his
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, cause you out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you at your luncheon
I'll be your 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 dies in the opera
And to the younguns who gadgets
And kill six a week, then rest on the Sabbath
Violence necessary, unless you provoke me
Then get buried like the Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, your rap are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a prophet