Lyrics Have Mercy - Young Roddy, Trademark Da Skydiver, Smoke DZA

Have Mercy

Might break her heart, I tell her what I really did
Block on fire but I’m chilly chill
On the real, I could take your wheels, really real
Try tell her one day I’ma be a millionaire
Slip up, get caught, get 100 years
Tough love made his mom cry 100 tears
Yeah, the niggas get loud or they gone and
It’s me against the real, yeah I’m all in
In the bank smelling like Bob Marley
Told my girl I’d be home in the morning
I was back now it’s gone get the money
My side bitch, that’s a whole 'nother story
Not to many niggas make it out New Orleans
Never hating, if they did I applaud 'em
Stay safe yeah the feds, they recording
I’m hood rich, still rocking Air Forces
All I know is while they crossing coffins
All I see is second lines in coffins
Phone ringing off the hook, they calling
Trap phones stay jumping like Jordan
Niggas bag up bricks on the regular
Niggas emptying them clips on a regular
Bunch of cowboys ride with they heads low
When a good nigga get killed that’s f’ed up
Probably why them niggas hearts stay frozen
No love for a bitch like Goldie
Hoes tell me I’m a dog like Rover
From the hood where the cops stay patrolling
Glenwood with the rats and the roaches
Call the plug, get them packs up in motion
On the block with the snakes and the vultures
Bust the Tre, yeah my life a rollercoaster
Back to the hood like I never left it
Cops pull us over, ask 21 questions
Living up in Hell, wonder will I get to Heaven?
Lost in the sauce, asked God for directions
Bait the bill, give it to the reverend
I don’t give a fuck feeling like Machiavelli
Trapped and I trapped and trapped in the belly
Yeah, the beast where them young niggas selling
Same old shit just a different day
Wake up, get dressed, make another plate
Nigga looking for the villain, I been in the cut
Chilling, plotting on a million
Tell 'em that I’m on my way
Smoke a 3 gram blunt, take the stress away
Made a 10 grand jug just yesterday
Only thing I know is how to get the bag up
Spit the truth, amen, put your hands up
From a city that ain’t sweet when it’s beef
Hittas catch you in the street
And they wet your whole fam up
Young 'uns on the block flashing hammers like cameras
They hoes said it’s local, they crips is bananas
They flip dirty birds, I ain’t talking Atlanta
12 on the block but the radars and scanners
I keep my cool, play it smooth and don’t panic
Getting my guac up, still got paper habits
Gotta get to the bag while the getting good
I know they feel this real shit up in every hood
From the gutter, I could never turn Hollywood
Always keep it 100, that’s understood
Talk shit 'bout the villain, they ain’t never could
Never took a hand out, still living good
Talking all that gansta shit but they never do it
Run up on me and mine, boy, I wish you would
Gotta second that statement, wish a nigga would
Shouldn’t have to explain what’s understood
My lil homie run around like Elmer Fudd
Year-round man-down season in my neighbourhood
Pass another wood
Couple homies passed and finished with the juug
Couples models finished, mommys fuck a good
Plug it low, these boujee bitches 'cause I could
True that, move back
Hear 'who that?'
for weeks
Still got low that you never seen
Still got flows that you never schemed
Double entendres, don’t miss the metaphor
Her daddy was the plug, that’s what I met her for
Took a Uber down to the 7th Ward
Hustling everywhere, can’t keep still
Made 6 figures with my old G
Real nigga off a handshake deal
Kush car still structuring the landscape still
My fans stay real, my hands so ill