Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing swords of Damocles
Secret service keep a close as if my name was Kennedy
raps simple with a street format
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by
Check out the retrograde motion, kill the
Of biting and recycling and it your own creation
I feel like Rockwell, watching me
I got no whether on land or at sea
And for you biting zealots, your are cacophonic
Hypocrite, critic, but deep inside you 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
We'll show you how the do

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

And even after all my logic and my
I add a "Motherfucker" so you niggas hear me
remember take notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you biting zealots, 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 divide the tribe
cats can't rap, mister author I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl should have solo
The guys should stop rapping - vanish like
Took it to the heart, but every actor his part
As long as someone was listening, I it was a start
For me to get my chance, my pen and revamp
Do a cameo while do the dance
Quick now, cause you out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm gonna get you
While you at your luncheon
be planning your assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound sets my rap DBX
drop vocals on my 456 Ampex
Bring terror to the shop of
As she cry, "mi amor," the phantom dies in the
And to the who carry gadgets
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 biting zealots, rap styles are relics
No who you damage, you're still a false prophet