[ STORIES FROM THE GHETTO ] скачать в хорошем качестве

[ STORIES FROM THE GHETTO ]

AI-generated tracks, use a mixer to master the music. If you liked it, leave a like and follow us! LYRIC: [VERSE 1] Let me tell you 'bout Ms. Clara, 3B, with the flower box full of dead petunias. Two sons: one in the ground, one in a cage bigger than Texas. She still sweeps the stoop every dawn, like she's brushing away ghosts. We paid our "rent" to her in silence, keeping the chaos from her door the most. That's the first fable: Protect the roots, even in the rot. 'Cause the day you forget the mamas, is the day this whole block gets forgot. Let me tell you 't 'bout Ray-Ray, could dribble a ball like it was tied to his soul. Had a jumper so sweet, scouts came down and lost their control. But the summer before scholarship, a corner debt came due. A choice: his brother's life or the future he knew. He chose blood. Now his arena's a cage for a different game. That's the second fable: Dreams are the currency here, and they always get claimed. [CHORUS - Raw, sung-spoken over a haunting vocal sample] These are ghetto fables, written in rust and pride. Stories we live by, where hope and hunger collide. Lessons from the concrete, where right and wrong get blurred. Ghetto fables... the only history we ever heard. (Sound of a jump rope hitting pavement in a steady rhythm) [VERSE 2] Let me tell you 'bout the corner store imam, Mr. Hassan from Yemen. Sold loosies and lottery dreams to desperate men. Saw him talk a young fool down from a ledge made of pride and a Glock. No preaching, just coffee, and a quiet talk about the clock. Said, "The sunset looks the same on a king or a fool, my son. Don't let yours come too soon." That's the third fable: Salvation wears an apron, not a robe. Let me tell you 'bout the Christmas the lights went out for a week. No heat, just the cold concrete singing its bleak technique. We pooled the last of everything: candles, canned beans, a bottle of cheap wine. Shared it in the hallway, a single, shaking line. For those few days, no sets, no colors, just people in the dark. That's the fourth fable: The truce only comes when the situation's stark. [CHORUS] These are ghetto fables, written in rust and pride. Stories we live by, where hope and hunger collide. Lessons from the concrete, where right and wrong get blurred. Ghetto fables... the only history we ever heard. (Sound of a vinyl record skipping, then catching on a loop) [BRIDGE - Music strips to a lone, out-of-tune piano] These stories... they're our bible. Our constitution. They teach you when to stand... and when to become a ghost. They teach you that love here is a violent, fierce protection. And that loss isn't an event... it's the atmosphere. You breathe it in 'til your lungs turn to stone. (A child's voice, filtered through memory: "Tell me the one about the boy who flew away.") [VERSE 3] So you hear the gunshots and see the news vans and the stats. You think you know the plot. But you don't know the acts. The silent pact between a dealer and a mother dying of sick. "Not near her window. Not when her kids are out front. You dig?" The hidden tax we pay to the madness, to keep a shred of peace. The way a funeral for a rival can make the warring briefly cease. These fables ain't pretty. They're stained with bad choices and worse luck. They're about the day you realize your hero's just another stuck. But they're ours. Forged in the fire of being left behind. A morality play where everyone's morally blind. So judge your Law & Order, your black and white, your neat design. Out here, the only law is the fable... and the fable's doing time. [CHORUS - Voices layered, tired, defiant] GHETTO FABLES! WRITTEN IN RUST AND PRIDE! STORIES WE DIE BY! WHERE HOPE AND HUNGER COLLIDE! LESSONS FROM THE CONCRETE! WHERE THE LINES GET BLURRED! GHETTO FABLES... THE ONLY TRUTH... WE EVER... #HipHop #RapMusic #NewRap #HipHop2026 #Underground #Trap #MusicVideo #Rapper #Freestyle #TypeBeat