Hit em up lyrics

[Tupac]

I ain't got no motherfucking friends

That's why I fucked your bitch

You 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 clique 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

[Chorus:]

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 even know why I'm 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 traps

Little accident murderers

And I ain't never heard of you

Poisonous 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

[Chorus]

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 in the clouds hoping

Smoking dope

It's like a Sherm high

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

Motherfucker 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

Coppin' pleas in de Janeiro

Little Kim is you

Coked up or doped up

Get your little Junior Whopper clique smoked up

What the fuck?

Is you stupid?

I take money,

crash and mash through Brooklyn

With my clique looting, shooting, and polluting your block

With fifteen 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 ass east coast props

Brainstormed and locked

You's a beat biter

Pac style taker

I'll tell you to your face, you ain't shit but a faker

Soften than Alize with a chaser

'bout to get murdered for the paper

E.D. 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 clique

Dressing up trying 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.

• Artist:2Pac