Cry Out (Amen)

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

I grew up where them people called them people on us
Think we slangin', but we just got beepers on us
Grindin' all day like we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the videos write a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood like they poured cement on us
Ghetto birds still shittin' on us, government still quittin' on us
Lost a few homies and the grief still sittin' on us
So we got their names writtin' on us
White folks still spittin' on us
And them bitch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes still gettin' on us
All the bitches still hittin' on us
I remember well, Beezy roll a L
Beezy ain't here. Where's Beezy at? Beezy got killed
And that was my nigga, I go way back wit my nigga
But I know that's how it happened my nigga
Shit is much deeper than this rappin' my nigga
But now they all rappin', my niggas, so now I must make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, sail boat flappin' my nigga
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nigga Lil' Tiggas
'Cause even though we couldn't, The Lord saved him
Last time we seen him was when Katrina hated
Found his body like a month later, rest in peace boy
He was a East boy, and so was Wesy West
He was a good nigga, so I know he blessed
And his daughter is a princess
This shit is harder than a bench press
But I'mma keep goin', and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But I'mma keep on pumpin' the flow
So if I cry don't stop the beat
I feel like my heart just stopped the beat
My nigga Lil' Derrick is quick to cop a key
Either that or load the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a name in a rhyme of mine
I pray his family and his mama's fine
So much shit just sit on this mind of mine
I think about it all the time
I drink about it all the time
I smoke back to back
'Cause if my thoughts got to me I'd be in this rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had dreams of being the man
Yeah
And fuck a man with a badge
'Cause he ain't shit to a man on the edge
The five-o killed Naughty, good boy dead
Man you woulda thought they killed Corn Bread
Shot 'em up face down on the lawn
Not to mention with his handcuffs on
Not to mention they had plain clothes on
And the complaint goes on
But nobody do nothin' 'bout it
The jailhouse and the morgue is too fuckin' crowded
And haters at an all time high
Everybody gotta hate, just like a fuckin' iPod
Shit and they tried to burn my Phantom up
But I got my gun license, I got my hammers up
I'm ready to shoot like a camera
Stay still mothafucka I'mma have to write my will this summer
'Cause if they don't kill me, I'mma kill this summer
Yeah
And you can put that on my late father
Or my late grandmother, Ms. Mercedes Carter
Or my grandfather Larry Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his heart stopped
And all I know 'bout my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, that brown paper bag money
Yeah he might hit me off wit a little brag money
But the nigga still wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I hope he glad for me
But that's why when I see him I acts mad funny,
'Cause he's a joke to me
Don't message, don't call, don't talk to me
It's just me and my mama how it's suppose to be
And I make sure she paid like she rode for me
And I know she gets all hope for me
And I don't ever want to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but truthfully there is a day that's due for me
But we gone pray it's as far as the future sees
You are listenin' to the future Weezy F. Baby
Amen