Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out

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

I grew up where them people them people on us
Think we slangin', but we just got on us
Grindin' all day we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the videos write a on us
in the hood like they poured cement on us
Ghetto birds still shittin' on us, government still on us
a few homies and the grief still sittin' on us
So we got their writtin' on us
White still spittin' on us
And bitch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes gettin' on us
All the bitches still on us
I well, Beezy roll a L
Beezy ain't here. Beezy at? Beezy got killed
And that was my nigga, I go way 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 make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, sail flappin' my nigga
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Tiggas
'Cause even though we couldn't, The Lord him
Last time we seen him was when Katrina
Found his body like a 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
shit is harder than a bench press
But keep goin', and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But I'mma on pumpin' the flow
So if I cry don't the beat
I feel like my just stopped the beat
My nigga Derrick is quick to cop a key
Either or load the gat and go pop a G
And because of that just a name in a rhyme of mine
I his family and his mama's fine
So much shit just sit on this of mine
I think it all the time
I drink it all the time
I back to back
'Cause if my got to me I'd be in this rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had dreams of the man

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

And you can put that on my late
Or my late grandmother, Ms. Carter
Or my grandfather Bosock
The old man hustle his heart stopped
And all I know 'bout my real pops is he had money
No account, that brown paper bag money
Yeah he might hit me off wit a little money
But the nigga still be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I he glad for me
But why when I see him I acts mad funny,
'Cause a joke to me
message, don't call, don't 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 gets all for me
And I don't want to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but truthfully there is a day due for me
But we gone pray as far as the future sees
You are listenin' to the future F. Baby