2 Pac - Hit ´Em Up lyrics

Album: Greatest Hits, Disk 1 (1998)

Intro: Tupac

I aint got no motherf*ckin friend
That is why I f*cked yo´ bitch, you fat motherf*cker
(take money) West side!!
Bad Boy killers
(take money) You know the realest is niggaz
(take money) We bring it to you
(take money)

Verse One: Tupac

1st off, f*ck your bitch & the click you claim
West side when we ride come equipped with game
You claim to be a player but I f*cked your wife
We bust on Bad Boy niggaz f*cked for life
Plus Puffy tryin ta see me weak, hearts I rip
Biggie Smallz & Junior M.A.F.I.A. some mark ass bitches
We keep on comin´ while we runnin for ya jewels
steady gunnin, keep on bustin at the fools, you know the rules
Little Ceaser, go ask ya homie how I leave ya
cut your young ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil Kim, don´t f*ck around with real G´s
Quick to snatch yo´ ugly ass off tha street, so f*ck peace
I let them niggas know it is on for life
So let the West side ride tonight hahahah
Bad Boy murdered on wax, & killed
F*ck wit´ me & get ya cap spilt, you know ... see ...

Chorus:

Grab ya glocks, when you see Tupac
Call the cops, when you see Tupac, uhh
Who shot me, but ya punks didn´t finish
Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
NIGGA, I hit em´ up...

Interlude: Tupac

Check this out, you muthaf*ckas know what time it´s
I do not even know why I am on this track
ya´ll niggaz aint even on my level
I ama let my little homies ride on you
bitch made-ass bad boy bitches, deal with it!

Verse Two: Fatal

Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smallz just got dropped
Little Moo, pass the Mac, & let me hit him in his back
Frank White need to get spanked right, for settin tracks
little accident murderer, & I aint never heard-a ya
Poisinous gats attack when I am servin ya
Spank the shank ya whole style when I dank
Guard your rank, cause I ama slam you ass in the pavement
Puffy weaker that a f*ckin rocka want to do, nigga
and, I will smoke ya junior mafia in front of you, nigga
With the ready power tuckin my Guess under my Eddie Bauer
ya clout, pretty sour I get packages every hour
and hit ´em up

Chorus
Grab ya glocks, when you see Tupac
Call the cops, when you see Tupac, uhh
Who shot me, but ya punks didn´t finish
Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
NIGGA, I hit em´ up...

Verse Three: Tupac

Peep how we do it, keep it real, it is penitentiary steel
this ain´t no freestyle battle, all you niggaz gettin
killed with ya mouths open
tryin to come up offa me, you in the clouds hoping
smokin dope it is like a sherm high
Niggaz think they learned to fly
But they burned muthaf*cka, you deserve to die
Talkin bout you gettin money, but its funny to me
All you niggaz living bummy, why you are f*ckin´ with me
I am a self made milionare
Thug Livin out a prison, pistols in the air, hahaha
Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on my couch
and beg the bitch to let you sleep in the house, ahh
Now its all about Versacci, you copied my style
Five shots couldn´t drop me, I took it, & smiled
Now I am bout to set the record straight, with my AK
I am still the thug that you love to hate
Motherf*cker, I hit ´em up

Verse Four: Kadafi

I am from N-E-W Jerz, where plenty murders occur
No points to be calmer, we bringin drama to all you herbs
Knuckle check the scenario, Little Cease
I bring you fake G´s to your knees
Coppin pleas cuz this aint your area
Lil Kim, is you coked up, or doped up?
Get ya lil Junior Whopper click smoked up, what the f*ck
is you STUPID?!?! I take money, crash & mash through Brooklyn
with my click lootin, shootin & pollutin ya block
with 15 shots cock glock to your knot
Outlaw mafia click movin up another notch
And you bast stops squaws get mopped & dropped
All your fake-ass east coast props brainstormed & locked

Verse Five: Idi Amin

Youse a, beat biter, a Pac style taker
I will tell you to ya face you ain´t shit but a faker
Softer than Alizee with a chaser
Bout to get murdered for the paper
Idi Amin approach the scene
Write a caper, like a loc, with little ceaser in a choke hold
Totin smoke, we ain´t no muthaf*ckin joke
Thug Life, niggaz betta be knowin, we approachin
in the wide open, guns smokin
no need for hopin its a battle lost, I got across
Soon as the funk was poppin off
Nigga I hit ´em up

Outro: Tupac

Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run
They do not want to see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. click dressin up tryin ta be us
How the f*ck they going to be the mob when we always on our job
We millionaires, killin aint fair but somebody have got to do it
Oh yea, Mobb Deep, you want to f*ck with us?
You little young ass motherf*ckers
Don´t one of you niggaz got sickle cell or somethin?
You f*ckin with me nigga you f*ck around
and have a seizure or a heart-attack
You better back the f*ck up, before you get smacked the f*ck up
That is how we do it on our side
Any of you niggaz from New York that want to bring it, bring it
But we aint singin, we bringin drama
F*ck you & your motherf*ckin mama
We going to 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*ckin opinion
Well this how we going to do this
F*ck Mobb Deep
F*ck Biggie
F*ck Bad Boy as a staff record label
and as a motherf*ckin 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)
Alla y´all motherf*ckers, f*ck you die slow motherf*cker
My fo´-fo´ make sure all y´all kids don´t grow
You motherf*ckers can´t be us or see us
We the motherf*ckin Thug Life rides West side until we die!
Out here in California we warn ya we will bomb on you motherf*ckers
We do our job
You think you mob, nigga we the motherf*ckin mob
Aint nuttin but killers & the real niggaz
All you motherf*ckers feel us
Our shit is going triple & four-quadruple
(take money)
You niggaz laugh coz our staff got guns at they
motherf*ckers belt, you know how it´s
When we drop records they feel it
You niggaz can´t feel it
We the realest, FUCK EM, we Bad Boy killin *echoes*

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