a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

lirik lagu 2pac – hit ’em up (feat. tha outlawz)


i ain’t got no motherf-ckin friends
that’s why i f-cked yo’ b-tch, you fat motherf-cker
(take money) west side, bad boy killers (take money)
you know who the realest is n-gg-z we bring it to you (take money)
(take money)

first off, f-ck your b-tch and the click 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 boy n-gg-z f-cked for life
plus puffy tryin’ ta see me weak hearts i rip
biggie smalls and junior m.a.f.i.a. some mark–ss b-tches
we keep on comin’ while we runnin’ for yo’ jewels
steady gunnin, keep on bustin at them fools, you know the rules
lil’ ceaser, go ask ya homie how i leave ya
cut your young -ss up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
lil’ kim, don’t f-ck around with real g’s
quick to sn-tch yo’ ugly -ss off the streets, so f-ck peace
i let them n-gg-z know it’s on for life
so let the westside ride tonight
bad boy murdered on wax and killed
f-ck wit’ me and get yo’ caps peeled, you know, see

grab ya glocks, when you see tupac
call the cops, when you see tupac, uh
who shot me, but ya punks didn’t finish
now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
n-gg-, i hit em’ up

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-gg-z ain’t even on my level
i’ma let my little homies ride on you (take money)
b-tch made–ss bad boy b-tches deal with it!

get out the way yo, get out the way yo
biggie smalls just got dropped
little moo, p-ss the mac, and let me hit him in his back
frank white need to get spanked right, for settin’ traps
little accident murderers, and i ain’t never heard-a ya
poisinous gats attack when i’m servin’ ya
spank ya shank ya whole style when i gank
guard your rank, ’cause i’ma slam your -ss in the paint
puffy weaker than the f-ckin’ block i’m runnin through n-gg-
and i’m smokin’ junior m.a.f.i.a. in front of you n-gg-
with the ready power tuckin’ my guess under my eddie bauer
ya clout petty sour, i get packages every hour to hit ’em up

grab ya glocks, when you see tupac
call the cops, when you see tupac, uh
who shot me, but ya punks didn’t finish
now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
n-gg-, i hit em’ up

peep how we do it, keep it real, it’s penitentiary steel
this ain’t no freestyle battle
all you n-gg-z gettin killed with ya mouths open
tryin’ to come up offa me, you in the clouds hopin’
smokin dope it’s like a sherm high n-gg-z 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-gg-z livin’ b-mmy why you f-ckin’ with me?
i’m a self made millionaire
thug livin’ out a prison, pistols in the air
biggie, remember when i used to let you sleep on the couch
and beg a b-tch to let you sleep in the house
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

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 ceas’ i’ll bring you fake g’s to your knees
copping pleas in de janeiro
little kim, is you c-ked up or doped up?
get your little junior whopper click smoked up
what the f-ck, is you stupid?
i take money, crash and mash through brooklyn
with my click looting, shooting and polluting your block
with a 15-shot c-cked 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 -ss east coast props
brainstormed and locked

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 alize with a chaser
about to get murdered for the paper
e.d.i amin approach the scene of the caper
like a loc, with little ceas’ in a choke
gun totin’ smoke. we ain’t no motherf-cking joke
thug life, n-gg-s 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
n-gg-, i hit em up!

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 f-ck 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 (take money) you wanna f-ck with us
you little young–ss motherf-ckers (take money)
don’t one of you n-gg-s got sickle-cell or something (take money)
you’re f-cking with me, n-gg- you f-ck around and catch a seizure or a heart attack (take money)
you better back the f-ck up before you get smacked the f-ck up
this is how we do it on our side
any of you n-gg-s from new york that want to bring it, bring it
but we ain’t singing, we bringing drama
f-ck you and your motherf-cking mama
we’re gonna 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-cking opinion
well this is how we gonna do this
f-ck mobb deep, f-ck biggie
f-ck bad boy as a staff, record label and as a motherf-cking 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)
all of y’all mother f-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-gg-, we warned ya
we’ll bomb on you motherf-ckers. we do our job
you think you mob? n-gg-, we the motherf-ckin’ mob
ain’t nothing but killers and the real n-gg-s
all you motherf-ckers feel us
our sh-t goes triple and 4-quadruple
(take money)
you n-gg-s laugh ’cause our staff got
guns under they motherf-ckin’ belts
you know how it is, when we drop records they felt
you n-gg-s can’t feel it, we the realest
f-ck ’em, we bad boy-killers