Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out

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

I grew up where them people them people on us
we slangin', but we just got beepers on us
Grindin' all day we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the write a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood like they cement on us
Ghetto birds still shittin' on us, government still on us
Lost a few homies and the still sittin' on us
So we got their names on us
White folks spittin' on us
And them bitch ass police canines, teeth grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes gettin' on us
All the bitches hittin' on us
I well, Beezy roll a L
Beezy ain't here. Where's Beezy at? Beezy got
And was my nigga, I go way back wit my nigga
But I know how it happened my nigga
is much deeper than this rappin' my nigga
But now they all rappin', my niggas, so now I must make it
So play the captain, sail boat flappin' my nigga
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Lil'
'Cause even though we couldn't, The saved him
Last time we seen him was Katrina hated
Found his body a month later, rest in peace boy
He was a East boy, and so was Wesy
He was a good nigga, so I know he
And his daughter is a
This shit is than a bench press
But I'mma keep goin', and I swear I got a lump in my
But keep on pumpin' the flow
So if I cry don't stop the
I feel like my just stopped the beat
My nigga Lil' is quick to cop a key
Either that or the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a name in a rhyme of
I pray his family and his fine
So much shit just sit on mind of mine
I about it all the time
I drink it all the time
I back to back
if my thoughts got to me I'd be in this rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had of being the man

And fuck a man a badge
he ain't shit to a man on the edge
The five-o Naughty, good boy dead
Man you thought they killed Corn Bread
Shot 'em up down on the lawn
Not to mention his handcuffs on
Not to mention they had clothes on
And the complaint on
But nobody do nothin' it
The jailhouse and the morgue is too crowded
And haters at an all high
Everybody gotta hate, just like a iPod
and they tried to burn my Phantom up
But I got my gun license, I got my up
I'm to shoot like a camera
Stay still mothafucka I'mma have to write my will summer
'Cause if they don't kill me, I'mma this summer

And you can put that on my late
Or my grandmother, Ms. Mercedes Carter
Or my grandfather Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his heart
And all I 'bout my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, brown paper bag money
Yeah he might hit me off wit a brag money
But the nigga wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I out I hope he glad for me
But that's why I see him I acts mad funny,
'Cause he's a to me
Don't message, don't call, talk to me
It's me and my mama how it's suppose to be
And I sure she paid like 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 is a day that's due for me
But we gone pray it's as far as the sees
You are listenin' to the Weezy F. Baby