Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

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

See my rhymes, are the of fly rhymes
That can only get down with my
And if you try, to take or bite rhymes
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 against the of physics
So weep as your sweet dreams break up Eurythmics
Rap my tape deck, ejects projectile
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top
Many styles, more than gamma rays
My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice Polaris
You just embarrassed cause it's your tango in Paris

And after all my logic and my theory
I add a "Motherfucker" so you ignant hear me
Crew remember notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you zealots, here's a quote

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

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

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