Hit 'Em Up (ft Outlawz)

[2Pac]
I ain’t got no motherfucking friends
That’s why I fucked your bitch, you fat motherfucker
West Side, Bad Boy killers (take money, take money)
You know who the realest is, niggas, we bring it too
Take money, take money

First off, fuck your bitch and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I fucked your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, niggas fucked for life
Plus Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. 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
Lil’ Cease, go ask your homie how I’ll leave you
Cut your young ass up, leave 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 Westside ride the night
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
Fuck with me and get your caps peeled
You know, see

Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac
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 (take money)
You motherfuckers know what time it is
I don’t know why I’m even on this track (take money)
Y’all niggas ain’t even on my level
I’m going to let my little homies ride on you bitch-made ass (take money)
Bad Boy bitches (take money)

[Hussein Fatal]
Get out the way, yo, get out the way, yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Moo’ pass the Mac and let me hit em in his back
Frank White needs to get spanked right for setting traps
Little accident-murderer
And I ain’t never heard of you
Poisonous gats attack when I’m serving you
Spank you, shank your whole style when I gank
Guard your rank, cause I’ma slam your ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than the fuckin’ block I’m running through, nigga
And I’m smoking Junior M.A.F.I.A. in front of you, nigga
With the ready-power tucked in my Guess under my Eddie Bauer
Your clout petty/sour, I push packages every hour, I hit ‘em up

[2Pac]
Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac
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 as penitentiary steel
This ain’t no freestyle battle
All you niggas getting killed with your mouths open
Trying 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
Why you fucking with me?
I’m a self-made millionaire!
Thug livin’, out of prison, pistols in the air
Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on the couch
And beg a bitch to let you sleep in the house?
Now it’s all about Versace, you copied my style
5 shots couldn’t drop me, I took it and smiled
Now I’m back to set the record straight
With my AK, I’m still the thug that you love to hate
Motherfucker, I’ll hit em up

[Kadafi]
I’m from N-E-W Jers’
Where plenty of murders occurs
No points or commas, we bring drama to all you herbs
Now go check the scenario
Little Cease, I’ll bring you fake G’s to your knees
Copping pleas in de Janeiro
Little Kim, is you coked up or doped up?
Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
What the fuck, is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click looting, shooting and polluting your block
With a 15-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

[E.D.I. Mean]
You’s a beat biter
A Pac style taker
I’ll tell you to your face, you ain’t shit but a faker
Softer than Alize with a chaser
About to get murdered for the paper
E.D.I Mean approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc, with Little Ceas’ in a choke
Gun totin’ smoke, we ain’t no motherfucking 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 got ‘em crossed as soon as the funk is bopping off
Nigga, I hit ‘em up!

[2Pac]
Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run
They don’t wanna see us (take money)
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressing up trying to be us (take money)
How the fuck they gonna be the mob when we always on our job? (Take money)
We millionaires, killing ain’t fair, but somebody got to do it (take money)
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep: you wanna fuck with us? (Take money)
You little young-ass motherfuckers (take money)
Don’t one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something? (Take money)
You’re fucking with me, nigga?
You fuck around and have a seizure or a heart attack (take money)
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 motherfucking mama
We gon’ kill all you motherfuckers
Now when I came out, I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open their mouth with a motherfucking 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 motherfucking crew
And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, then fuck you too
Chino XL: Fuck you too
All you motherfuckers, fuck you too (take money, take money)
All of y’all mother fuckers, fuck you, die slow, motherfucker
My .44 make sure all y’all kids don’t grow
You motherfuckers can’t be us or see us
We motherfuckin’ Thug Life-riders
Westside til we die
Out here in California, nigga, we warned ya
We’ll bomb on you, motherfuckers
We do our job
You think you 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 4-quadruple (take money)
You niggas laugh cause our staff got guns under they motherfuckin’ belts
You know how it is, when we drop records they felt
You niggas can’t feel it, we the realest
Fuck ‘em, we Bad Boy-killers