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H.U.R.T.
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In this one long verse, you feel the hood emanating and my HURT for those whom have strayed.
boston mike beantown pham bean kid beantowne bike moston boston mike boston pham mike boston mike boston from boston mikey bee
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IG@MikeBoston617 Twitter@MikeBoston617 YouTube@MikeBoston617 http://www.facebook.com/MikeBoston617 http://www.MikeBoston.co
This is what I live for. This is what I am dying for the love of. Yahweh.
Song Info
Genre
Hip-Hop • Bass Rap
Charts
Peak #5,353
Peak in subgenre #124
Author
Mike Boston
Rights
2005 Mike Boston Records
Uploaded
August 23, 2005
Track Files
MP3
MP3 1.9 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Story behind the song
My feelings = the dam AFTER the breach in this piece.
Lyrics
H.U.R.T. Written by Mike Boston Produced by Diego for A.S.A.P. I’m hurt by the disbelief – Call Curt by the river where he lurk While he search for his missin’ teeth. Burnt by a distant beef... On a turf where the earth got some liquor And a church every fifty feet. Cursed by iniquity, On a perch where the worst in the click Be the first to hit victory. Flirtin’ with a wicked beast, In a time where a 50 Cent CD Cost twenty-four sixty, chief! Irked by the sticky heat... But she’ll put a little time in for that Diamond studded thingy up in Tiffany’s. Burpin’ up a sticky leaf. Purple up in front her middle teeth Smirkin’, as disgruntled as the kid could be. Workin’ to the grit-n-meat. Pourin’ syrup & molasses on a biscuit On the first ‘cuz da rich is cheap. Versin’ my epiphanies, Adverse to the sympathy Worse than a sentence, penitentiary. Observin’ what they did to meeeeeeeeee. Not deservin’ what they give to be the history In learnin’ who the Christians be. It certainly commissions me... This condition of discernment that I’m prithee. You ain’t heard or you ain’t getting me! Further in the distance see, Be the victims of the son of perdition In a done-up subscription READ! Spun-up in abyss of dreams. ‘Til I’m ONE with the jist of NEED. Grungy with intent, get the Mistolin! Filthy as a son could be. And I’m guilty as a hungry fiend, Smitten, tryna tilt the little youngin teens. Gunnin’ for the underlings. In my Underoos humming things. Numberin’ the nights when my hunger screams. Mummy play the Numbers Game. Top bunk no longer under Wayne, Locked-up and Pops pumpin’ other thangs. Stocked-up above the rage! Knocked-up by another sage, Plopped in a potluck of lover’s plague.
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