corrija a letra Letra Voicemail por Chris Webby

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Where were you-?

Where were you on the nights that I sat by myself?
In my room out my mind, tryin' to handle my health
All alone on the phone, hopin' you'd pick up the cell
But now I know how it goes when I get your voicemail
Where were you on the nights that I sat by myself?
In my room out my mind, tryin' to handle my health
All alone on the phone, hopin' you'd pick up the cell
But now I know how it goes when I get your voicemail

So many times I've cried, so many times I've hurt
So many times I've tried to die and take a ride in that long black hearse, but I called you first, but you ignored me
'Cause you knew that my life was p*ss-pouring, you would move to the side when it gets gory
And then you would arrive when my mood would subside and I get a victory
It's funny how these people tell you that they'll be there for you through the thick and thin
'Cause when you losin', they ain't nowhere to be viewed until you improve and begin to win
Then all of a sudden, they come out of nowhere and act like they've always been there
Like you weren't the one that was bravin' the storms, they just seen the weather's fair
And they wanna claim you when you get well, and they'll be quick to say that you're friends
And they always knew that you'd excel, but you weren't there on the night I had a gun to my head
With a one way trip to Hell, so don't you ever dare to look my way
All you fair weather friends are fake, and if you don't think it's fair, then I'll say

You see, friendships should be crystal clear, but with some of y'all, the sh*t hard to tell
When the chips were down, y'all ain't give a f**k, weren't pickin' up when I called your cell
But then it changed and I bought a chain, and I bought a house, and I bought a Range
Now they callin' back, wantin' autographs for their cousin, and wanna come hang
sh*t, it's not even like I'm still p*ssed at them, 'cause carryin' that sh*t is toxic
And now, I'm way more rich than them, I'm too busy countin' my profits
Took my shot to explode, y'all ain't acknowledged me, so
You can still come to my shows, you'll just get charged at the door
Yeah, I cut out all of them fake ones, I'm ridin' out with my day ones
And we still tight as f**k, breakin' bread, takin' vacations
Ain't mad at you at all, too many plaques up on my wall
I'm not tryna be a d**k, but you should've picked up my call, yeah

Where were you-?
*noises of a shovel digging into the ground*

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