Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing of Damocles
Secret service keep a watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps simple a street format
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by
out the retrograde motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and it your own creation
I feel Rockwell, somebody's watching me
I got no privacy 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 over the

See my rhymes, are the type of fly
That can only get down my crew
And if you try, to lines or bite rhymes
We'll show you how the do

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

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

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

You can try but you can't the tribe
These cats can't rap, mister I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the girl should have solo
The guys should stop rapping - like Menudo
Took it to the heart, but every plays his part
As long as someone was listening, I it was a start
For me to get my chance, grab my pen and
Do a while everybody do the dance
now, cause 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 with my rap DBX
Then drop vocals on my 456
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 rest on the
Violence ain't necessary, you provoke me
get buried like the great Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, your rap styles are
No who you damage, you're still a false prophet