Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

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

See my rhymes, are the of fly rhymes
That can only get with my crew
And if you try, to take lines or bite
show you how the refugees do

Yeah, behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes
Two MCs can't occupy the same at the same time
It's against the of physics
So as your sweet dreams break up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects
Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile
Many styles, more powerful gamma rays
My grammar pays, like Carlos plays "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm mango juice under Polaris
You just embarrassed cause 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

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 can't divide the
These cats can't rap, mister I feel no Vibe
The magazine says the should have went solo
The guys should stop rapping - like Menudo
it to the heart, but every actor plays 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 while everybody do the dance
Quick now, cause you running out of
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you munching at luncheon
I'll be planning assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sets with my rap DBX
Then 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
ain't necessary, unless you provoke me
Then get buried like the Mussolini
And for you biting zealots, your rap styles are
No matter who you damage, you're a false prophet