Luyện nghe bài hát Zealots

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

I MCs like Mephistopheles, bringing swords of Damocles
service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy
Abstract raps with a street format
Gaze into the sky and planets by parallax
Check out the motion, kill the notion
Of biting and recycling and calling it 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 don't it, a refugee 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 or bite rhymes
We'll you how the refugees do

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

And even after all my and my theory
I add a "Motherfucker" so you ignant niggas 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 to Jesus Christ, why
Oh Lord, father let him bury me, whoa

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

I sound sets with my rap DBX
Then vocals on my 456 Ampex
Bring to the shop of horror
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 are relics
No matter who you damage, you're still a false