Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out

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

I grew up where them called them people on us
Think we slangin', but we got beepers on us
Grindin' all day we got sleep insomnia
Livin' the videos write a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood they poured cement on us
Ghetto birds still shittin' on us, government still on us
Lost a few and the grief still sittin' on us
So we got their writtin' on us
White folks spittin' on us
And bitch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes still on us
All the still hittin' on us
I well, Beezy roll a L
Beezy ain't here. Where's Beezy at? Beezy got
And that was my nigga, I go way wit my nigga
But I know how it happened my nigga
Shit is much deeper than this rappin' my
But now they all rappin', my niggas, so now I must make it
So I'mma the captain, sail boat flappin' my nigga
No I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Lil' Tiggas
even 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 boy, and so was Wesy West
He was a nigga, so I know he blessed
And his is a princess
This shit is than a bench press
But keep goin', and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But I'mma keep on the flow
So if I cry stop the beat
I feel my heart just stopped the beat
My nigga Lil' Derrick is to cop a key
Either that or the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a in a rhyme of mine
I pray his family and his fine
So shit just sit on this mind of mine
I think it all the time
I about 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 shit to a man on the edge
The five-o Naughty, good boy dead
Man you woulda thought they killed Bread
Shot 'em up face down on the
Not to mention with his on
Not to they had plain clothes on
And the complaint on
But nobody do nothin' it
The and the morgue is too fuckin' crowded
And haters at an all time
gotta hate, just like a fuckin' iPod
Shit and tried to burn my Phantom up
But I got my gun license, I got my up
I'm ready to shoot like a
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. Mercedes
Or my grandfather Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his heart
And all I know my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, that paper bag money
he might hit me off wit a little brag money
But the nigga still be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I he glad for me
But that's why I see him I acts mad funny,
'Cause a joke to me
Don't message, don't call, don't to me
It's just me and my mama how it's to be
And I make she paid like she rode for me
And I know she gets all for me
And I don't ever want to see her 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