Luyện nghe bài hát Cry Out

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

I grew up where them people called them on us
Think we slangin', but we got beepers 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 shittin' on us, 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 them bitch ass police canines, teeth grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes gettin' on us
All the bitches still on us
I remember well, roll a L
ain't here. Where's Beezy at? Beezy got killed
And that was my nigga, I go way wit my nigga
But I know that's how it my nigga
Shit is deeper than this rappin' my nigga
But now all rappin', my niggas, so now I must make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, sail flappin' my nigga
No I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Lil' Tiggas
'Cause though we couldn't, The Lord saved him
Last we seen him was when Katrina hated
Found his body like a later, rest in peace boy
He was a boy, and so was Wesy West
He was a good nigga, so I he blessed
And his daughter is a
shit is harder 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 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 in a rhyme of mine
I pray his family and his mama's
So much shit just sit on this of mine
I think it all the time
I about it all the time
I smoke to back
'Cause if my thoughts got to me I'd be in rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had of being the man

And fuck a man with a
'Cause he ain't shit to a man on the
The five-o killed Naughty, boy dead
Man you woulda thought killed 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 do nothin' 'bout it
The jailhouse and the morgue is too fuckin'
And haters at an all high
Everybody gotta hate, just like a iPod
Shit and tried 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 I'mma 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. Mercedes
Or my Larry Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his stopped
And all I know 'bout my pops is that he had money
No bank account, that paper bag money
Yeah he might hit me off wit a little money
But the nigga wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I hope he for me
But why when I see him I acts mad funny,
he's a joke to me
Don't message, don't call, don't 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 she gets all hope 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 it's as far as the future sees
You are to the future Weezy F. Baby