ARTIST(s):        2Pac ft. Outlawz
SONG TITLE:     Hit Em Up
ALBUM:              Nu-Mixx Klazzics





So I f**ked your bi**h 
You fat mutha-f**ka {Take Money} 
West Side 
Bad Boy Killers {Take Money} 
You know who the realist is 
ni**as we bring it to {Take Money} 
(ha ha, that's alright) 

First off, f**k your bi**h 
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 
ni**as f**k for Life 
Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak 
Hearts I rip 
Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia 
Some mark a*s bi**hes 
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 a*s up 
See yah in pieces 
Now be deceased 
Little Kim, 
Don't f**k with real a*s G's 
Quick to snatch your ugly a*s, off the streets 
So f**k peace 
I'll let them ni**as 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 
ni**a, 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 ni**as ain't even on my level 
I'm going to let my little homies 
Ride on yah 
bi**h made a*s Bad Boys bi**hes 
{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 a*s in a pang 
Puffy weaker than a f**kin' block 
I'm running through ni**a 
And I'm smoking Junior Mafia 
In front of yah ni**a 
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 
ni**a, We hit 'em up 

Peep how we do it 
Keep it real 
Its penitentiary steel 
This ain't no freestyle battle 
All you ni**as 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 
ni**as 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 ni**as 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 bi**h 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 a*s east coast props 
Brainstormed and locked 

You'se a B-writer 
Pac style taker 
I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing s**t 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, ni**as 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 
ni**a, 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 a*s mutha-f**kas 
Don't one of you ni**as got sickle-cell or something 
You f**king with me, ni**a ? 
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 ni**as 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, ni**a 
We warned ya' 
We'll bomb on you mother f**kers. 
We do our job. 
You think you the mob, ni**a, we the mother f**kin' mob 
Ain't nuttin' but killers 
And the real ni**as, all you mother f**kers feel us. 
Our s**t goes triple and four quadruple 
You ni**as laugh cuz our staff got guns under they mother f**kin' belts 
You know how it is and we drop records they felt 
You ni**as can't feel it 
We the realist 
f**k 'em. 
We Bad Boy killas.