Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing of Damocles
Secret service a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple with a format
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by
Check out the motion, kill the notion
Of and recycling 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 zealots, your raps are cacophonic
Hypocrite, critic, but deep you wish 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
That can only get down with my
And if you try, to take lines or bite
We'll show you how the do

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on your
Two MCs can't occupy the space at the same time
against the laws of physics
So weep as your sweet dreams break up like
Rap rejects my deck, ejects projectile
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top
Many styles, more than gamma rays
My grammar pays, like Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice Polaris
You just embarrassed cause your last tango in Paris

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

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

You can try but you divide the tribe
These cats can't rap, author I feel no Vibe
The magazine the girl should have went solo
The guys should stop rapping - vanish 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, my pen and revamp
Do a while everybody do the dance
now, cause you running out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you munching at luncheon
I'll be planning your assassination, hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound sets my rap DBX
drop vocals on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the dies in the opera
And to the who carry gadgets
And kill six days a week, then on the Sabbath
Violence necessary, unless you provoke me
Then get like the great Mussolini
And for you zealots, your rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, still a false prophet