Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles, swords 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 by parallax
out the retrograde motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and calling it your own
I feel like Rockwell, somebody's me
I got no whether on land or at sea
And for you zealots, your raps are cacophonic
Hypocrite, critic, but deep inside you you had the pop hit
It hurts don't it, a refugee come to turf
And take over the

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

Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, on your rhymes
Two MCs can't occupy the space at the same time
It's against the of physics
So weep as your sweet dreams up like Eurythmics
Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects
Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile
Many styles, more powerful than gamma
My grammar pays, like Santana plays "Black Magic Woman"
So while you fuming, I'm consuming mango under Polaris
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
Crew take notes, as I sow my rap oats
And for you zealots, here's a quote

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

You can try but you can't the tribe
These cats can't rap, mister author I feel no
The says the girl should have went solo
The guys should 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 while do the dance
now, cause you running out of luck-a
Playing Mr. Big, I'm get you sucka
While you munching at your
I'll be planning your assassination, hit you like the Dutchman

I compress sound with my rap DBX
Then drop on my 456 Ampex
Bring terror to the of horror
As she cry, "mi amor," the phantom in the opera
And to the younguns who carry
And six days a week, then rest on the Sabbath
Violence ain't necessary, you provoke me
Then get buried like the great
And for you zealots, your rap styles are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a false