Hit'em Up

[Tupac] I ain't got no mutha f**kin friends That's why I f**ked yo bitch You fat mutha-f**ka {Take Money} West Side Bad Boy Killers {Take Money} You know you know who the realist is Niggas we bring it to {Take Money} (Ha ha, that's aight) ha ha (Take money) First off, f**k your bitch And the click you claim West side when we ride Come equipped with game You claim to be a playa But I f**ked your wife We bust on Bad Boys Niggas f**k for Life Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak Hearts I rip Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia Some mark a*s bitches We keep on coming While we running for yah jewels Steady gunning Keep on busting at them fools You know the rules Little Ceasar go ask your homie How I'll leave yah Cut your young a*s up See yah in pieces Now be deceased Little Kim, Don't f**k around with real G's Quick to snatch your ugly a*s, off the streets So f**k peace I 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 f**k with me And get yo caps peeled You know, See [Chorus] Grab your glocks when you see 2pac Call the cops when you see 2pac, Uhh Who shot me, But, you punks didn't finish Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace Nigga, I hit 'em up Check this out You mutha-f**kas know what time it is I don't even know why I'm on this track Y'all niggas ain't even on my level I'm going to let my little homies Ride on yah Bitch made a*s Bad Boys bitches {ahh yo, yo, hold the f**k up} Get out the way yo Get out the way yo Biggie Smalls just got dropped Little move pa*s the mac And let me hit 'em in his back Frank White needs to get spanked right For setting traps Little accident murderer And I ain't never heard of yah Pointless gats attack when I'm servin yah Spank the shank Your whole style when I gank Guard your rank Cause I'm a slam your a*s in a pang Puffy weaker than a f**kin' 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 Bower Your clout petty sour I push packages ever hour I hit 'em up [Chorus] Grab your glocks when you see 2pac Call the cops when you see 2pac, Uhh Who shot me, But, you punks didn't finish Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace Nigga, We hit 'em up Peep how we do it Keep it real It's 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 mutha-f**ka you deserve to die Talking about you Getting Money But it's funny to me All you niggas living for me While you f**king 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 To beg a 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 Mutha-f**ka I'll Hit 'Em Up I'm from N E W Jers. Where plenty of murder occurs No points to come We bring the drama to all you herds Bout to check the scenerio Little Ceas' I'll bring you fake G's to yah knees Copin' pleas with these diganario Little Kim is yah Coked up or doped up Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up What the f**k? Is you stupid? I take party 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 get mopped and dropped On all your fake a*s east coast props Brainstormed and locked You'se a beat fighter A Pac style taker I'll tell you to your face, you ain't shit but a faker So fill the Alize with a chaser 'Bout to get murdered for the paper E.d.I I mean the post the scene of the caper Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uhh) Toting smoke, we ain't no mutha-f**kin' 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 I see them, they run (ha ha) They don't wanna see us Whole Junior Mafia click Dressing up to be us How the f**k they gonna be the Mob? When we always on our job We millionaire's Killing ain't fair But somebody got to do it Oh yea Mobb Deep (huh) You wanna f**k with us You Little young a*s mutha-f**kas Don't one of you niggas got single-cell or something You f**kin with me, nigga? You f**k around have a seizure or heart-attack You better back the f**k up Before you get smacked the f**k 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 f**k you and your mother f**king mama. We gonna kill all you mother f**kers. Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie. But everybody had to open they mouth with the mother f**kin opinion Well this is how we gon' do this: f**k Mobb Deep, f**k Biggie, f**k Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother f**kin crew. And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, Then f**k you too. Chino XL, f**k you too. All you mother f**kers, f**k you too. (Take money, take money) All of y'all mother f**kers, f**k you, die slow mother f**ker. My fo' fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow. You mother f**kers can't be us or see us. We mother f**kin' Thug Life riders. West Side till' we die. Out here in California, nigga We warn ya' We'll bomb on you mother f**kers. We do our job. You think you the mob, nigga, we the mother f**kin' mob Ain't nuttin' but killers And real niggas, all you mother f**kers feel us. Our shit goes triple and four quadruple You niggas laugh cuz our staff got guns in they mother f**kin' belts You know how it is wen we drop records they felt You niggas can't feel it We the realist f**k 'em. We Bad Boy killas. ( we killas, we killas, ) (fades)