Songs (2)

2pac Hit em up

I ain't got no motherfu*king friends
That's why I f*cked your bi*ch you fat motherf*cker
West Side, Bad Boy killers
You know who the realest is
We bring it too
Take money, take money


First off, f*ck your bi*ch and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player but I f*cked your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, ni**as f*cked for life
Plus Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. some mark-@ss b*tches
We keep on coming while we running for your jewels
Steady gunning, keep on busting at them fools
You know the rules
Lil' Caesar go ask you homie how I'll leave you
Cut your young ass up, leave you in pieces
Now be deceased
Little Kim, don't f*ck around with real G's
Quick to snatch your ugly @ss off the streets
So f*ck peace
I'll let them ni**as know it's on for life
Don't let the Westside ride the night
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
F*ck with me and get your caps peeled
You know


Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac
Who shot me, but your punks didn't finish
Now you about to feel the wrath of a menace
Ni**a I hit em up


Check this out
You motherf*ckers know what time it is
I don't know why I'm even on this track
Y'all ni**as ain't even on my level
I'm going to let my little homies ride on you b*tch-made @ss Bad Boy bi*ches


Get out the way, yo, get out the way, yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Moo' pass 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 you
Poisonous gats attack when I'm serving you
Spank you, shank your whole style when I gank
Guard your rank, cause I'm a slam your @ss in the paint
Puffy weaker than the f*ckin' block I'm running through, ni**a
And I'm smoking Junior M.A.F.I.A. in front of you, ni**a
With the ready-power tucked in my Guess
Under my Eddie Bauer
Your clout petty/sour
I push packages every hour, I hit em up


Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac
Who shot me, but your punks didn't finish
Now you about to feel the wrath of a menace
Ni**a I hit em up


Peep how we do it
Keep it real as penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you ni**as getting killed with your mouths open
Trying to come up off of me, you in the clouds hoping
Smoking dope, it's like a sherm high
Ni**as think they learned to fly
But they burn, motherf*cker, you deserve to die
Talking about you getting money
But it's funny to me
All you ni**as living bummy
Why you f*cking with me?
I'm a self-made millionaire!
Thug livin', out of prison
Pistols in the air
Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on the couch
And beg a bi*ch to let you sleep in the house?
Now it's all about Versace, you copied my style
5 shots couldn't drop me, I took it and smiled
Now I'm back to set the record straight
With my AK, I'm still the thug that you love to hate
Motherf*cker I'll hit em up


I'm from N-E-W Jers'
Where plenty of murders occurs
No points or commas, we bring drama to all you herbs
Now go check the scenario: Lil' Cease
I'll bring you fake G's to your knees
Copping pleas in de Janeiro
Little Kim, is you coked up or doped up?
Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
What the f*ck, is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click looting, shooting and polluting your block
With a 15-shot cocked Glock to your knot
Outlaw MAFIA clique moving up another notch
And your pop stars popped and get mopped and dropped
And all your fake @ss East Coast props
Brainstormed and locked


You's a beat biter
A Pac style taker
I'll tell you to your face you ain't s*it but a faker
Softer than Alize with a chaser
About to get murdered for the paper
E.D.I Mean approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc, with Little Ceas' in a choke
Gun totin' smoke. We ain't no motherf*cking joke
Thug Life, ni**as better be known
Be approaching in the wide open, gun smoking
No need for hoping, it's a battle lost
I got em crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off
Ni**a, I hit em up!


Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run
They don't wanna see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressing up trying to be us
How the f*ck they gonna be the mob when we always on our job?
We millionaires, killing ain't fair but somebody got to do it
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep: you wanna f*ck with us
You little young-@ss motherf*ckers
Don't one of you ni**as got sickle-cell or something
You're f*cking with me, ni**a
You f*ck around and catch a seizure or a heart attack
You better back the f*ck up
Before you get smacked the f*ck up
This is how we do it on our side
Any of you ni**as from New York that want to bring it, bring it
But we ain't singing, we bringing drama
F*ck you and your motherf*cking mama
We gon kill all you motherf*ckers
Now when I came out, I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open their mouth with a motherf*cking opinion
Well this is how we gonna do this
F*ck Mobb Deep, f*ck Biggie
F*ck Bad Boy as a staff, record label and as a motherf*cking crew
And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, then f*ck you too
Chino XL: f*ck you too
All you motherf*ckers, f*ck you too (Take money, take money)
All of y'all mother fu*kers, f*ck you, die slow, motherf*cker
My .44 make sure all y'all kids don't grow
You motherf*ckers can't be us or see us
We motherf*ckin' Thug Life-riders
Westside til we die
Out here in California, ni**a, we warned ya
We'll bomb on you motherf*ckers. We do our job
You think you mob? Ni**a, we the motherf*ckin' mob
Ain't nothing but killers and the real ni**as
All you motherf*ckers feel us
Our s*it goes triple and 4-quadruple
You ni**as laugh cause our staff got guns under they motherf*ckin' belts
You know how it is, when we drop records they felt
You ni**as can't feel it, we the realest
F*ck em, we Bad Boy-killers