Hit ’Em Up (Intro, Verse 1, Chorus 1, Interlude, Chorus 2, Verse 2, & Outro) lyrics

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

[Verse 1]
f*ck yo' b*tch and the clique you claim
Westside, when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim da be a player, but I f*cked cho' 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 coming while we running for your jewels
Steady gunning, keep on busting at them fools, you know the rules
Lil' Caesar, go ask your homie how I'll leave ya
Cut cha young ass up, leave you in pieces, now, be deceased
Lil' Kim, don't f*ck around with real G's
Quick da 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 cho' caps peeled, you know, see
[Chorus 1]
Grab yo' Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But chu punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout da feel the wrath of a menace (Uh-huh, yeah)
n*gga, I hit 'em up

[Interlude]
Check this out, you motherf*ckers know what time it is
Ion't even know why I'm on this track
Y'all n*ggas ain't even on my level, I'ma let my lil' homies ride
On you b*tch-made-ass Bad Boy b*tches, feel it

[Chorus 2]
Grab yo' Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But chu punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout da feel the wrath of a menace (Uh-huh, yeah)
n*gga, we hit 'em up

[Verse 2]
Peep how we do it, keep it real as penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you n*ggas getting killed wit' cha mouths open
Tryna come up off of me, you in the clouds hoping
Smoking dope, it's like a sherm high, n*ggas think they learned a fly
But they burn, motherf*cker, you deserve da die
Talking 'bout cha getting money, but it's funny da me
All you n*ggas living bummy while you f*cking with me
I'm a self-made millionaire
Thug living, 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 cha 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 da set the record straight
With my AK, I'm still the thug that cha love da hate
Motherf*cker, I hit 'em up
[Outro]
Now, you tell me who won
I see them, they run, hahaha
They don't wanna see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressing up tryna be us
How the f*ck they gon' be the mob when we always on our job? We millionaires
Killing ain't fair, but somebody gotta do it
Oh, yeah, Mobb Deep, huh, you wanna f*ck with us?
You lil' young-ass motherf*ckers
Don't one of you n*ggas got sickle-cell or something?
You're f*cking with me, n*gga, you f*ck around and have a seizure or a heart attack
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 singing, we bringing drama
f*ck you and yo' motherf*cking mama
We gon' kill all you motherf*ckers
Now, when I came out, I told cha it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had a open they mouth with a motherf*cking 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 a motherf*cking 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
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*cking 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*cking mob
Ain't nothing but killers and the real n*ggas, all you motherf*ckers feel us
Our sh*ts go triple and four-quadruple
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 (We killers)