Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out (Amen)

Yeah,
Yes
I'mma call one, real rap
Because this rap is real, ya
I hope you too tired to cry
And I hope you know you never too live to die

I grew up where them people called them on us
Think we slangin', but we just got on us
Grindin' all day we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the videos a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood like they 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 their writtin' on us
White folks still on us
And bitch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, still 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
Shit is much than this rappin' my nigga
But now all rappin', my niggas, so now I must make it happen
So I'mma the captain, sail boat flappin' my nigga
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Lil'
'Cause even though we couldn't, The Lord him
Last time we him was when Katrina hated
Found his body like a later, rest in peace boy
He was a East boy, and so was West
He was a good nigga, so I know he
And his is a princess
shit is harder than a bench press
But I'mma keep goin', and I swear I got a lump in my
But I'mma keep on the flow
So if I cry stop the beat
I feel like my heart just stopped the
My nigga Lil' is quick to cop a key
that 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 and his mama's fine
So much just sit on this mind of mine
I about it all the time
I drink it all the time
I smoke 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 of being the man

And fuck a man a badge
'Cause he ain't to a man on the edge
The five-o Naughty, good boy dead
Man you woulda thought they Corn Bread
'em up face down on the lawn
Not to mention with his on
Not to mention they had plain 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 fuckin'
Shit and they tried to 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 this summer
'Cause if they kill me, I'mma kill this summer

And you can put that on my father
Or my late grandmother, Ms. Carter
Or my Larry Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his stopped
And all I know my real pops is that he had money
No account, that brown paper bag money
Yeah he hit me off wit a little brag money
But the still wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I out I hope he glad for me
But why when 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 gets all for me
And I ever want to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but there is a day that's due for me
But we gone pray it's as far as the sees
You are listenin' to the future Weezy F.