Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Zealots, artist - The Fugees. Date of issue: 12.02.1996
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Zealots |
| Another MC lose his life tonight, lord |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why |
| O lord, father don’t let him bury me, whoa |
| I haunt MC’s like Mephistophales |
| Bringin swords and Damacles |
| Secret service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy |
| Abstract raps simple with a street format |
| Gaze into the sky and measure planets by parallax. |
| Check out the retrograde motion, kill the notion |
| Of biting and recycling and calling it your own creation. |
| I Feel like Rockwell, «Somebody's watching me» |
| I got no privacy whether on land or at sea. |
| And for you biting zealots, your raps are cacophonic |
| Hypocrit, critic, but deep inside you wish you had the pop hit. |
| It hurts don’t it, the refugees come to your turf and take over |
| the earth. |
| :INTERLUDE |
| See my rhymes are the type of fly rhymes |
| That can only get down with my crew |
| And if you try to take lines or bite rhymes |
| We’ll show you how the refugees do. |
| Behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes |
| Two MC’s can’t occupy the same space at the same time. |
| It’s against the laws of Physics. |
| So weep as your sweet dreams break up like Eurythmics |
| Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects projectile |
| Whether jew or gentile |
| I rank top percentile, |
| Many styles, |
| More powerful than gamma rays |
| My grammar pays, |
| Like Carlos Sanatana plays |
| Black Magic Woman |
| So while you fuming, I’m consuming |
| Mango juice under Polaris, |
| You’re just embarrassed |
| Cause it’s your «Last Tango in Paris» |
| And even after all my logic and my theory, |
| I add a muthafuckker so you ignint niggas hear me. |
| And you remember take notes, |
| As I sow my rap otas |
| And for you biting zealots, here’s a «e. |
| :(Chorus) |
| Another MC lose his life tonight, lord |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why |
| O lord, father don’t let him bury me, whoa |
| You can try but you can’t divide the tri |
| These cats can’t rap, Mr. Author I feel no Vibe |
| The magazine says the girl should have gone solo, |
| The guys should stop rapping, vanish like Menudo. |
| Took it to the heart, but every actor plays his part |
| As long as someone was listening, I knew it was a start, |
| For me to get a chance, grab my pen and revamp |
| Do a cameo while everybody do the dance. |
| Quick now, cause you runnin’out of lucka |
| Playin’Mr. |
| Big, I’m gonna get you sucka. |
| While you munchin at your luncheon, I’ll be planning your |
| assassination |
| Then hit you like the Dutchmen |
| I compress sound sets with my rap DBX |
| Then drop vocals on my 456 AMPEX |
| Bring terror to the shop of horror, |
| As she cries «Mi amor» |
| The phantom dies in the opera |
| And to the youngin’s who carry gadgets |
| And kill 6 days a week then rest on the Sabbath. |
| Violence ain’t necessary, unless you provoke me Then get buried like the great Mussolini |
| And for you bitin’Zealots |
| Your rap styles are relics |
| No matter who you damage |
| Your still a false prophet. |
| :(Chorus) |
| Another MC lose his life tonight, lord |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why |
| O lord, father don’t let him bury me, whoa |