Hit ’Em Up lyrics

[Intro: 2Pac]
(Sucker-ass) I ain't got no motherf*ckin' friends
That's why I f*cked yo' b*tch, you fat motherf*cker (Take money)
Westside, Bad Boy killers (Take money, you know)
You know who the realest is, n*ggas (Take money)
We bring it too (That's aight, haha)
(Take money) Haha

[Verse 1: 2Pac]
First off, f*ck your b*tch and the clique you claim
Westside, when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I f*cked your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, n*ggas f*cked for life
Plus, Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A., some mark-ass b*tches
We keep on comin' while we runnin' for your jewels
Steady gunnin', keep on bustin' at them fools, you know the rules
Lil' Caesar, go ask your homie how I'll 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 the streets, so f*ck peace
I'll let them n*ggas know it's on for life
Don't let the Westside ride tonight (Haha)
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
f*ck with me and get yo' caps peeled, you know, see
[Chorus: 2Pac]
Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But you punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace (Uh-huh, yeah)
n*gga, I hit 'em up

[Interlude: 2Pac & Hussein Fatal]
Check this out, you motherf*ckers know what time it is (Take money)
I don't even know why I'm on this track (Take money)
Y'all n*ggas ain't even on my level, I'ma let my lil' homies ride (Take money)
On you b*tch-made-ass Bad Boy b*tches, feel it (Ayo, ayo, hold the f*ck up, yeah; take money)

[Verse 2: Hussein Fatal]
Get out the way, yo, get out the way, yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Mu', pass the MAC and let me hit 'em in his back
Frank White needs to get spanked right for settin' traps
Little accident murderer, and I ain't never heard of ya
Poisonous gats attack when I'm servin' ya
Spank ya, shank ya whole style when I gank
Guard your rank 'cause I'ma slam your ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than the f*ckin' block I'm runnin' through, n*gga
And I'm smokin' Junior M.A.F.I.A. in front of you, n*gga
With the ready power tucked in my Guess under my Eddie Bauer
Your clout petty, sour, I push packages every hour, hit 'em up
[Chorus: 2Pac]
Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But you punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
n*gga, we hit 'em up

[Verse 3: 2Pac]
Peep how we do it, keep it real as penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you n*ggas gettin' killed with your mouths open
Tryna come up off of me, you in the clouds hopin'
Smokin' dope, it's like a sherm high, n*ggas think they learned to fly
But they burn, motherf*cker, you deserve to die
Talkin' 'bout you gettin' money, but it's funny to me
All you n*ggas livin' bummy while you f*ckin' with me
I'm a self-made millionaire
Thug livin', out of prison, pistols in the air, haha
Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on the couch
And begged a b*tch to let you sleep in the house? Uh
Now it's all about Versace, you copied my style
Five shots couldn't drop me, I took it and smiled
Now I'm 'bout to set the record straight
With my AK, I'm still the thug that you love to hate
Motherf*cker, I hit 'em up
[Verse 4: Kadafi & E.D.I. Mean]
I'm from N-E-W Jers' where plenty murders occurs
No points or commas, we bring the drama to all you herbs
Now go check the scenario
Little Cease, 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 f*ck, is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my clique lootin', shootin' and pollutin' your block
With 15-shot c*cked Glock to your knot
Outlaw MAFIA clique, movin' up another notch
And your pop stars popped, get mopped and dropped
All your fake-ass East Coast props brainstormed and locked (Haha)

[Verse 5: E.D.I. Mean]
You's a beat biter, a Pac style taker
I'll tell you to your face, you ain't sh*t but a faker
Softer than Alizé with a chaser
'Bout to get murdered for the paper
E.D.I. Mean approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc, with Lil' Caesar in a choke
Gun totin' smoke, we ain't no motherf*ckin' joke
Thug Life, n*ggas better be knowin'
We approachin' in the wide open, gun smokin'
No need for hopin', it's a battle lost
I got 'em crossed as soon as the funk is boppin' off
n*gga, I hit 'em up

[Outro: 2Pac]
Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run, hahaha
They don't wanna see us (Take money)
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressin' up tryna be us (Take money)
How the f*ck they gon' be the mob when we always on our job? (Take money) We millionaires
Killin' ain't fair, but somebody gotta do it (Take money)
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep, huh, you wanna f*ck with us? (Take money)
You lil' young-ass motherf*ckers (Take money)
Don't one of you n*ggas got sickle-cell or somethin'? (Take money)
You're f*ckin' with me, n*gga, you f*ck around and have a seizure or a heart attack (Take money)
You better back the f*ck up 'fore you get smacked the f*ck up
This how we do it on our side
Any of you n*ggas from New York that wanna bring it, bring it
But we ain't singin', we bringin' drama
f*ck you and yo' motherf*ckin' mama
We gon' kill all you motherf*ckers
Now, when I came out, I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open they mouth with a motherf*ckin' opinion
Well, this is how we gon' 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 wanna 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)
All of y'all motherf*ckers, f*ck you, die slow, motherf*cker
My .44 make sure all y'all kids don't grow
You motherf*ckers can't be us or see us
We motherf*ckin' Thug Life riders, Westside, 'til we die
Out here in California, n*gga, we warned ya we'll bomb on you motherf*ckers
We do our job
You think you mob? n*gga, we the motherf*ckin' mob
Ain't nothin' but killers and the real n*ggas, all you motherf*ckers feel us
Our sh*ts go triple and four-quadruple (Take money)
You n*ggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns in they motherf*ckers belts
You know how it is, when we drop records, they felt
You n*ggas can't feel it, we the realest
f*ck 'em, we Bad Boy killers