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Tupac
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1
[Tupac]
2
I ain't got no motherfucking friends
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That's why I fucked your bitch
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You're fat motherfucker {Take Money}
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West Side
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Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}
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You know who the realist is
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niggas we bring it to {Take Money}
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(ha ha, that's alright)
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First off, fuck your bitch
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And the click you claim
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West side when we ride
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Come equipped with game
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You claim to be a player
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But I fucked your wife
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We bust on Bad Boys
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niggas fuck for Life
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Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak
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Hearts I rip
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Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia
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Some mark ass bitches
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We keep on coming
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While we running for your jewels
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Steady gunning
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Keep on busting at them fools
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You know the rules
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Little Ceasar go ask you homie
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How I'll leave you
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Cut your young ass up
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See you in pieces
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Now be deceased
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Little Kim,
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Don't fuck around with real G's
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Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets
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So fuck peace
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I'll let them niggas know
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It's on for Life
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Don't let the west side
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Ride the night (ha ha)
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Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill
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fuck with me
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And get your caps peeled
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You know, see
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[Chorus:]
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Grab your glocks when you see 2pac
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Call the cops when you see 2pac, uh
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Who shot me,
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But your punks didn't finish
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Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
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nigga, I hit 'em up
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Check this out
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You motherfuckers know what time it is
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I don't know why I'm even on this track
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You all niggas ain't even on my level
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I'm going to let my little homies
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Ride on you
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bitch made ass Bad Boys bitches
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{ah yo, yo, hold the fuck up}
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Get out the way yo
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Get out the way yo
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Biggie Smalls just got dropped
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Little move pass the mac
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And let me hit 'em in his back
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Frank White needs to get spanked right
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For setting up traps
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Little accident murderers
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And I ain't never heard of you
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Poise less gats attack when I'm serving you
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Spank the shank
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Your whole style when I gank
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Guard your rank
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'cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang
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Puffy weaker than a fuckin' block
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I'm running through nigga
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And I'm smoking Junior Mafia
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In front of you nigga
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With the ready power
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Tucked in my Guess
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Under my Eddie Bauer
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Your clout petty sour
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I push packages ever hour
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I hit 'em up
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[Chorus]
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Peep how we do it
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Keep it real
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Its penitentiary steel
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This ain't no freestyle battle
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All you niggas getting killed
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With your mouths open
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Tryin' to come up off of me
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You and the clouds hoping
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Smoking dope
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It's like a Sherm high
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niggas think they learned to fly
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But they burn motherfucker you deserve to die
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Talking about you Getting Money
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But it's funny to me
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All you niggas living bummy
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While you fucking with me?
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I'm a self made Millionaire
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Thug livin', out of prison
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Pistols in the Air {Air} (Ha Ha)
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Biggie remember when I use to let you sleep on the couch
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And beg the bitch to let you sleep in the house
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Now it's all about Versace
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You copied my style
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Five shots couldn't drop me
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I took it and smiled
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Now I'm back to set the record straight
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With my A-K
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I'm still the thug that you love to hate
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Mother-fucker I'll Hit 'Em Up
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I'm from N E W Jers.
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Where plenty of murder occurs
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No points to come
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We bring drama to all you herds
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Now go check the scenario
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Little Ceas'
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I'll bring you fake G's to your knees
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Coppin' please with these scenario
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Little Kim is you
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Coked up or doped up
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Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
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What the fuck?
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Is you stupid?
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I take money,
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crash and mash through Brooklyn
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With my click looting, shooting, and polluting your block
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With fifteen shot,
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Cocked glock to your knot
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Outlaw Mafia click moving up another notch
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And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped
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And all your fake ass east coast props
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Brainstormed and locked
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You're a beat biter
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Pac style taker
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I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker
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So fill the Alize with a chaser
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'bout to get murdered for the paper
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E.d.i I mean post the scene of the caper
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Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uh)
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Toting smoke, we ain't no motherfuckin' joke
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Thug Life, niggas better be known
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Be approaching
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In the wide open, gun smoking
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No need for hoping
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It's a battle lost
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I gottem crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off
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nigga, I hit 'em up
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Now you tell me who won
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I see them, they run (ha ha)
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They don't wanna see us
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Whole Junior Mafia click
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Dressing up trying to be us
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How the fuck they gonna be the Mob?
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When we always on out job
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We millionaire's
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Killing ain't fair
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But somebody got to do it
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Oh yah Mobb Deep (uh)
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You wanna fuck with us
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You Little young ass motherfuckers
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Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something
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You're fucking with me, nigga?
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You fuck around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack
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You better back the fuck up
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Before you get smacked the fuck up
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This is how we do it on our side
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Any of you niggas from New York that want to bring it,
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Bring it.
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But we ain't singing,
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We bringing drama
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fuck you and your mother fucking mama.
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We're gonna kill all you mother fuckers.
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Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie.
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Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother fucking opinion
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Well this is how we gonna' do this:
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fuck Mobb Deep,
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fuck Biggie,
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fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother fucking crew.
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And if you want to be down with Bad Boy,
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Then fuck you too.
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Chino XL, fuck you too.
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All you mother fuckers,
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fuck you too.
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(take money, take money)
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All of y'all mother fuckers,
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fuck you, die slow motherfucker.
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My four four (.44 magnum) make sure all your kids don't grow.
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You motherfuckers can't be us or see us.
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We mother fuckin' Thug Life riders.
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West Side till' we die.
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Out here in California, nigga
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We warned ya'
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We'll bomb on you mother fuckers.
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We do our job.
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You think you the mob, nigga, we the motherfuckin' mob
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Ain't nothing but killers
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And the real niggas, all you motherfuckers feel us.
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Our shit goes triple and four quadruple
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You niggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they motherfuckin' belts
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You know how it is and we drop records they felt
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You niggas can't feel it
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We the realist
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fuck 'em.
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We Bad Boy killers.
2Pac - Hit 'Em Up (Dirty) (Music Video) ...
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