Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing swords of
Secret service keep a close as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps with a street format
into the sky and measure planets by parallax
Check out the retrograde motion, kill the
Of and recycling and calling it your own creation
I feel like Rockwell, watching me
I got no privacy on land or at sea
And for you biting zealots, 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 of fly rhymes
That can only get down with my
And if you try, to take lines or bite
We'll show you how the do

Yeah, behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes
Two MCs can't occupy the space at the same time
It's the laws of physics
So weep as your sweet break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects
Whether Jew or gentile, I top percentile
Many styles, more powerful gamma rays
My pays, like Carlos Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So you fuming, I'm consuming mango juice under Polaris
You just embarrassed it's your last tango in Paris

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

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

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

I sound sets with my rap DBX
Then drop on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
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, unless you me
Then get buried like the Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, still a false prophet