2pac - Hit Em Up - Lyrics

  • [Tupac]
    I ain't got no motherfucking friends
    That's why I fucked your bitch
    You're fat motherfucker {Take Money}
    West Side
    Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}
    You know who the realist is
    niggas we bring it to {Take Money}
    (ha ha, that's alright)

    First off, fuck your bitch
    And the click you claim
    West side when we ride
    Come equipped with game
    You claim to be a player
    But I fucked your wife
    We bust on Bad Boys
    niggas fuck for Life
    Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak
    Hearts I rip
    Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia
    Some mark ass bitches
    We keep on coming
    While we running for your jewels
    Steady gunning
    Keep on busting at them fools
    You know the rules
    Little Ceasar go ask you homie
    How I'll leave you
    Cut your young ass up
    See you in pieces
    Now be deceased
    Little Kim,
    Don't fuck around with real G's
    Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets
    So fuck peace
    I'll let them niggas know
    It's on for Life
    Don't let the west side
    Ride the night (ha ha)
    Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill
    fuck with me
    And get your caps peeled
    You know, see

    Grab your glocks when you see 2pac
    Call the cops when you see 2pac, uh
    Who shot me,
    But your punks didn't finish
    Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
    nigga, I hit 'em up

    Check this out
    You motherfuckers know what time it is
    I don't know why I'm even on this track
    You all niggas ain't even on my level
    I'm going to let my little homies
    Ride on you
    bitch made ass Bad Boys bitches
    {ah yo, yo, hold the fuck up}

    Get out the way yo
    Get out the way yo
    Biggie Smalls just got dropped
    Little move pass the mac
    And let me hit 'em in his back
    Frank White needs to get spanked right
    For setting up traps
    Little accident murderers
    And I ain't never heard of you
    Poise less gats attack when I'm serving you
    Spank the shank
    Your whole style when I gank
    Guard your rank
    'cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang
    Puffy weaker than a fuckin' block
    I'm running through nigga
    And I'm smoking Junior Mafia
    In front of you nigga
    With the ready power
    Tucked in my Guess
    Under my Eddie Bauer
    Your clout petty sour
    I push packages ever hour
    I hit 'em up


    Peep how we do it
    Keep it real
    Its penitentiary steel
    This ain't no freestyle battle
    All you niggas getting killed
    With your mouths open
    Tryin' to come up off of me
    You and the clouds hoping
    Smoking dope
    It's like a Shermine
    niggas think they learned to fly
    But they burn motherfucker you deserve to die
    Talking about you Getting Money
    But it's funny to me
    All you niggas living bummy
    While you fucking with me?
    I'm a self made Millionaire
    Thug livin', out of prison
    Pistols in the Air {Air} (Ha Ha)
    Biggie remember when I use to let you sleep on the couch
    And beg the bitch to let you sleep in the house
    Now it's all about Versace
    You copied my style
    Five shots couldn't drop me
    I took it and smiled
    Now I'm back to set the record straight
    With my A-K
    I'm still the thug that you love to hate
    Mother-fucker I'll Hit 'Em Up

    I'm from N E W Jers.
    Where plenty of murder occurs
    No points to come
    We bring drama to all you herds
    Now go check the scenario
    Little Ceas'
    I'll bring you fake G's to your knees
    Copin' pleas with these
    Little Kim is you
    Coked up or doped up
    Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
    What the fuck?
    Is you stupid?
    I take money,
    crash and mash through Brooklyn
    With my click looting, shooting, and polluting your block
    With fifteen shot,
    Cocked glock to your knot
    Outlaw Mafia click moving up another notch
    And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped
    And all your fake ass east coast props
    Brainstormed and locked

    You're a beat biter
    Pac style taker
    I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker
    So fill the Alize with a chaser
    'bout to get murdered for the paper
    E.d.i I mean post the scene of the caper
    Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uh)
    Toting smoke, we ain't no motherfuckin' joke
    Thug Life, niggas better be known
    Be approaching
    In the wide open, gun smoking
    No need for hoping
    It's a battle lost
    I gottem crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off
    nigga, I hit 'em up

    Now you tell me who won
    I see them, they run (ha ha)
    They don't wanna see us
    Whole Junior Mafia click
    Dressing up to be us
    How the fuck they gonna be the Mob?
    When we always on out job
    We millionaire's
    Killing ain't fair
    But somebody got to do it

    Oh yah Mobb Deep (uh)
    You wanna fuck with us
    You Little young ass motherfuckers
    Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something
    You're fucking with me, nigga?
    You fuck around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack
    You better back the fuck up
    Before you get smacked the fuck up
    This is how we do it on our side
    Any of you niggas from New York that want to bring it,
    Bring it.
    But we ain't singing,
    We bringing drama
    fuck you and your mother fucking mama.
    We're gonna kill all you mother fuckers.
    Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie.
    Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother fucking opinion
    Well this is how we gonna' do this:
    fuck Mobb Deep,
    fuck Biggie,
    fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother fucking crew.
    And if you want to be down with Bad Boy,
    Then fuck you too.
    Chino XL, fuck you too.
    All you mother fuckers,
    fuck you too.
    (take money, take money)
    All of y'all mother fuckers,
    fuck you, die slow motherfucker.
    My four four (.44 magnum) make sure all your kids don't grow.
    You motherfuckers can't be us or see us.
    We mother fuckin' Thug Life riders.
    West Side till' we die.
    Out here in California, nigga
    We warned ya'
    We'll bomb on you mother fuckers.
    We do our job.
    You think you the mob, nigga, we the motherfuckin' mob
    Ain't nothing but killers
    And the real niggas, all you motherfuckers feel us.
    Our shit goes triple and four quadruple
    You niggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they motherfuckin' belts
    You know how it is and we drop records they felt
    You niggas can't feel it
    We the realist
    fuck 'em.
    We Bad Boy killers.

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