Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out

Yeah,
Yes
I'mma this one, real rap
Because rap is real, ya know?
I hope you ain't too to cry
And I you know you ain't never too live to die

I grew up them people called them people on us
Think we slangin', but we just got on us
Grindin' all day like we got sleep
Livin' like the videos write a on us
Stuck in the like they poured cement on us
Ghetto birds still on us, government still quittin' on us
Lost a few homies and the still sittin' on us
So we got names writtin' on us
White folks still on us
And them bitch ass police canines, still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes gettin' on us
All the bitches still on us
I well, Beezy roll a L
ain't here. Where's Beezy at? Beezy got killed
And was my nigga, I go way back wit my nigga
But I know that's how it happened my
Shit is deeper than this rappin' my nigga
But now they all rappin', my niggas, so now I make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, boat flappin' my nigga
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my Lil' Tiggas
'Cause though we couldn't, The Lord saved him
Last time we seen him was when Katrina
Found his body like a month later, rest in boy
He was a East boy, and so was West
He was a nigga, so I know he blessed
And his daughter is a
This shit is harder than a bench
But I'mma goin', and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But keep on pumpin' the flow
So if I cry stop the beat
I feel like my heart stopped the beat
My nigga Lil' Derrick is to cop a key
Either or load the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a name in a of mine
I pray his family and his mama's
So much shit sit on this mind of mine
I about it all the time
I drink it all the time
I smoke back to
'Cause if my thoughts got to me I'd be in rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had dreams of the man

And fuck a man with a
'Cause he ain't to a man on the edge
The five-o killed Naughty, boy dead
Man you woulda thought killed Corn Bread
Shot 'em up face down on the
Not to mention his handcuffs on
Not to mention had plain clothes on
And the complaint on
But do nothin' 'bout it
The jailhouse and the is too fuckin' crowded
And haters at an all time
Everybody gotta hate, just like a iPod
Shit and they tried to burn my up
But I got my gun license, I got my up
I'm ready to shoot like a
still mothafucka I'mma have to write my will this summer
'Cause if they don't kill me, kill this summer

And you can put on my late father
Or my late grandmother, Ms. Mercedes
Or my grandfather Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his stopped
And all I know my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, brown paper bag money
Yeah he might hit me off wit a little brag
But the still wouldn't be a dad for me
But how I turned out I hope he glad for me
But that's why I see him I acts mad funny,
'Cause a joke to me
Don't message, call, don't talk to me
just me and my mama how it's suppose to be
And I make sure she paid she rode for me
And I know she all hope for me
And I don't ever to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but truthfully there is a day due for me
But we pray it's as far as the future sees
You are listenin' to the future Weezy F.