Hit 'em Up 2pac текст и слова песни

[Tupac]


I ain't got no mutha f**kin friends

Thats why I f**ked your bitch

You fat mutha-f**ka {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, f**k your bitch

And the click you claim

West side when we ride

Come equipped with game

You claim to be a playa

But, I f**ked your wife

We bust on Bad Boys

niggas f**k 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 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 ass up

See yah in pieces

Now be deceased

Little Kim,

Don't f**k around with real G's

Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets

So f**k 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

f**k 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

nigga, I hit 'em up


Check this out

You mutha-f**kas know what time it is

I don't know why I'm even on this track

Y'all niggas ain't even on my level

I'm going to let my little homies

Ride on yah

bitch made ass Bad Boys bitches

{ahh yo, yo, hold the f**k 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 ass in a pang

Puffy weaker than a f**kin' block

I'm running through nigga

And I'm smoking Junior Mafia

In front of yah nigga

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

nigga, We hit 'em up


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 and the clouds hoping

Smoking dope

It's like a Shermine

niggas think they learned to fly

But they burn mutha-f**ka you deserve to die

Talking about you Getting Money

But its funny to me

All you niggas living bummy

While you f**king 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 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

Mutha-f**ka I'll Hit 'Em Up


I'm from N W New 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

Coked up or doped up

Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up

What the f**k?

Is you stupid?

I take money,

crash and mash through Brooklyn

With my click looting, shooting, and polluting your block

With fifteen shot,

Cocked 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 ass east coast props

Brainstormed and locked


You'se a B-writer

Pac style taker

I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker

So fill the Alazhay 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 mutha-f**kin' 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 click

Dressing up to be us

How the f**k 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**k with us

You Little young ass mutha-f**kas

Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something

You f**king with me, nigga ?

You f**k around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack

You better back the f**k up

Before you get smacked the f**k 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

f**k you and your mother f**king mama.

We gonna kill all you mother f**kers.

Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie.

Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother f**kin opinion

Well this is how we gon' do this:

f**k Mobb Deep,

f**k Biggie,

f**k Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother f**kin crew.

And if you want to be down with Bad Boy,

Then f**k you too.

Chino XL, f**k you too.

All you mother f**kers,

f**k you too.

(take money, take money)

All of y'all mother f**kers,

f**k you, die slow mother f**ker.

My fo' fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow.

You mother f**kers can't be us or see us.

We mother f**kin' Thug Life riders.

West Side till' we die.

Out here in California, nigga

We warned ya'

We'll bomb on you mother f**kers.

We do our job.

You think you the mob, nigga, we the mother f**kin' mob

Ain't nuttin' but killers

And the real niggas, all you mother f**kers feel us.

Our shit goes triple and four quadruple

You niggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they mother f**kin' belts

You know how it is and we drop records they felt

You niggas can't feel it

We the realist

f**k 'em.

We Bad Boy killas.