2Pac Tupac Hit Em Up Lyrics

[Tupac]

I ain't got no m____ f___in friends
Thats why I f___ed your b____
You fat m____-f___a {Take Money}
West Side
Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}
You know who the realist is
n____s we bring it to {Take Money}
(ha ha, that's alright)

First off, f___ your b____
And the click you claim
West side when we ride
Come equipped with game
You claim to be a playa
But, I f___ed your wife
We bust on Bad Boys
n____s f___ for Life
Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak
Hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia
Some mark a__ b____es
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 you homie
How i'll leave yah
Cut your young a__ up
See yah in pieces
Now be deceased
Little Kim,
Don't f___ around with real G's
Quick to s_____ your ugly a__, off the streets
So f___ peace
I'll let them n____s 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___ with me
And get your 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, your punks didn't finish
Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
n____, I hit 'em up

Check this out
You m____-f___as know what time it is
I don't know why I'm even on this track
Y'all n____s ain't even on my level
I'm going to let my little homies
Ride on yah
b____ made a__ Bad Boys b____es
{ahh yo, yo, hold the f___ 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 up traps
Little accident murderers
And I ain't never heard of yah
Poise less gats attack when I'm serving yah
Spank the shank
Your whole style when I gank
Guard your rank
Cause I'm a slam your a__ in a pang
Puffy weaker than a f___in' block
I'm running through n____
And I'm smoking Junior Mafia
In front of yah n____
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, your punks didn't finish
Now, you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
n____, We hit 'em up

Peep how we do it
Keep it real
Its penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you n____s 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
n____s think they learned to fly
But they burn m____-f___a you deserve to die
Talking about you Getting Money
But its funny to me
All you n____s living b__my
While you f___ing 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 b____ to let you sleep in the house
Now its 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
m____-f___a 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 scenerio
Little Ceas'
I'll bring you fake G's to yah knees
Copin' pleas with these
Little Kim is yah
c__ed up or doped up
Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
What the f___?
Is you stupid?
I take money,
crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click looting, shooting, and polluting your block
With fifteen shot,
c___ed 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 a__ east coast props
Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter
Pac style taker
I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing s___ 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 (uhh)
Toting smoke, we ain't no m____-f___in' joke
Thug Life, n____s 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
n____, 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 f___ 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 (uhh)
You wanna f___ with us
You Little young a__ m____-f___as
Don't one of you n____s got sickle-cell or something
You f___ing with me, n____ ?
You f___ around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack
You better back the f___ up
Before you get smacked the f___ up
This is how we do it on our side
Any of you n____s from New York that want to bring it,
Bring it.
But we ain't singing,
We bringing drama
f___ you and your mother f___ing mama.
We gonna kill all you mother f___ers.
Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie.
Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother f___in opinion
Well this is how we gon' do this:
f___ Mobb Deep,
f___ Biggie,
f___ Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother f___in crew.
And if you want to be down with Bad Boy,
Then f___ you too.
Chino XL, f___ you too.
All you mother f___ers,
f___ you too.
(take money, take money)
All of y'all mother f___ers,
f___ you, die slow mother f___er.
My fo' fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow.
You mother f___ers can't be us or see us.
We mother f___in' Thug Life riders.
West Side till' we die.
Out here in California, n____
We warned ya'
We'll bomb on you mother f___ers.
We do our job.
You think you the mob, n____, we the mother f___in' mob
Ain't nuttin' but killers
And the real n____s, all you mother f___ers feel us.
Our s___ goes triple and four quadruple
You n____s laugh cuz our staff got guns under they mother f___in' belts
You know how it is and we drop records they felt
You n____s can't feel it
We the realist
f___ 'em.
We Bad Boy killas.