[Tupac] I ain't got no mother******g friends That's why I ****** your ************* You fat mother******* (Take Money) West Side Bad Boy Killers (Take Money) You know who the realist is *************s we bring it to (Take Money) (ha ha, that's alright)
First off, ************* your ************* And the clique you claim West side when we ride Come equipped with game You claim to be a player But I ****** your wife We bust on Bad Boys *************s ************* for Life Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak Hearts I rip Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia Some mark ass ******* We keep on coming While we running for your jewels Steady gunning Keep on busting at them fools You know the rules Little Ceasar go ask you homie How I'll leave you Cut your young ass up See you in pieces Now be deceased Little Kim, Don't ************* around with real G's Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets So ************* peace I'll let them *************s know It's on for Life Don't let the west side Ride the night (ha ha) Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill ************* 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, uh Who shot me, But your punks didn't finish Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace *************, I hit 'em up
Check this out You mother*******s know what time it is I don't even know why I'm on this track You all *************s ain't even on my level I'm going to let my little homies Ride on you ************* made ass Bad Boys ******* (ah yo, yo, hold the ************* up)
Get out the way yo Get out the way yo Biggie Smalls just got dropped Little move pass the mac And let me hit 'em in his back Frank White needs to get spanked right For setting traps Little accident murderers And I ain't never heard of you Poisonous gats attack when I'm serving you Spank the shank Your whole style when I gank Guard your rank 'cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang Puffy weaker than a ******' block I'm running through ************* And I'm smoking Junior Mafia In front of you ************* With the ready power Tucked in my Guess Under my Eddie Bauer Your clout petty sour I push packages ever hour I hit 'em up
[Chorus]
Peep how we do it Keep it real Its penitentiary steel This ain't no freestyle battle All you *************s getting killed With your mouths open Tryin' to come up off of me You in the clouds hoping Smoking **** It's like a Sherm high *************s think they learned to fly But they burn mother******* you deserve to die Talking about you Getting Money But it's funny to me All you *************s living bummy While you ******g 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 ************* 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 back to set the record straight With my A-K I'm still the thug that you love to hate Mother******* I'll Hit 'Em Up
I'm from N E W Jers. Where plenty of murder occurs No points to come We bring drama to all you herds Now go check the scenario Little Ceas' I'll bring you fake G's to your knees Coppin' pleas in de Janeiro Little Kim is you Coked up or ****d up Get your little Junior Whopper clique smoked up What the *************? Is you stupid? I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn With my clique looting, shooting, and polluting your block With fifteen shot, *******ed 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
You's a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to your face, you ain't *************t but a faker Soften than Alize with a chaser 'bout to get murdered for the paper E.D. I mean post the scene of the caper Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uh) Toting smoke, we ain't no mother******' joke Thug Life, *************s 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 *************, 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 clique Dressing up trying to be us How the ************* 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 (uh) You wanna ************* with us You Little young ass mother*******s Don't one of you *************s got sickle-cell or something You're ******g with me, *************? You ************* around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack You better back the ************* up Before you get smacked the ************* up This is how we do it on our side Any of you *************s from New York that want to bring it, Bring it. But we ain't singing, We bringing drama ************* you and your mother ******g mama. We're gonna kill all you mother *******s. Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie. Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother ******g opinion Well this is how we gonna' do this: ************* Mobb Deep, ************* Biggie, ************* Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother ******g crew. And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, Then ************* you too. Chino XL, ************* you too. All you mother *******s, ************* you too. (take money, take money) All of y'all mother *******s, ************* you, die slow mother*******. My four four (.44 magnum) make sure all your kids don't grow. You mother*******s can't be us or see us. We mother ******' Thug Life riders. West Side till' we die. Out here in California, ************* We warned ya' We'll bomb on you mother *******s. We do our job. You think you the mob, *************, we the mother******' mob Ain't nothing but killers And the real *************s, all you mother*******s feel us. Our *************t goes triple and four quadruple You *************s laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they mother******' belts You know how it is and we drop records they felt You *************s can't feel it We the realist ************* 'em. We Bad Boy killers.
[Tupac] I ain't got no mother******g friends That's why I ****** your ************* You fat mother******* (Take Money) West Side Bad Boy Killers (Take Money) You know who the realist is *************s we bring it to (Take Money) (ha ha, that's alright)
First off, ************* your ************* And the clique you claim West side when we ride Come equipped with game You claim to be a player But I ****** your wife We bust on Bad Boys *************s ************* for Life Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak Hearts I rip Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia Some mark ass ******* We keep on coming While we running for your jewels Steady gunning Keep on busting at them fools You know the rules Little Ceasar go ask you homie How I'll leave you Cut your young ass up See you in pieces Now be deceased Little Kim, Don't ************* around with real G's Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets So ************* peace I'll let them *************s know It's on for Life Don't let the west side Ride the night (ha ha) Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill ************* 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, uh Who shot me, But your punks didn't finish Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace *************, I hit 'em up
Check this out You mother*******s know what time it is I don't even know why I'm on this track You all *************s ain't even on my level I'm going to let my little homies Ride on you ************* made ass Bad Boys ******* (ah yo, yo, hold the ************* up)
Get out the way yo Get out the way yo Biggie Smalls just got dropped Little move pass the mac And let me hit 'em in his back Frank White needs to get spanked right For setting traps Little accident murderers And I ain't never heard of you Poisonous gats attack when I'm serving you Spank the shank Your whole style when I gank Guard your rank 'cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang Puffy weaker than a ******' block I'm running through ************* And I'm smoking Junior Mafia In front of you ************* With the ready power Tucked in my Guess Under my Eddie Bauer Your clout petty sour I push packages ever hour I hit 'em up
[Chorus]
Peep how we do it Keep it real Its penitentiary steel This ain't no freestyle battle All you *************s getting killed With your mouths open Tryin' to come up off of me You in the clouds hoping Smoking **** It's like a Sherm high *************s think they learned to fly But they burn mother******* you deserve to die Talking about you Getting Money But it's funny to me All you *************s living bummy While you ******g 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 ************* 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 back to set the record straight With my A-K I'm still the thug that you love to hate Mother******* I'll Hit 'Em Up
I'm from N E W Jers. Where plenty of murder occurs No points to come We bring drama to all you herds Now go check the scenario Little Ceas' I'll bring you fake G's to your knees Coppin' pleas in de Janeiro Little Kim is you Coked up or ****d up Get your little Junior Whopper clique smoked up What the *************? Is you stupid? I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn With my clique looting, shooting, and polluting your block With fifteen shot, *******ed 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
You's a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to your face, you ain't *************t but a faker Soften than Alize with a chaser 'bout to get murdered for the paper E.D. I mean post the scene of the caper Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uh) Toting smoke, we ain't no mother******' joke Thug Life, *************s 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 *************, 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 clique Dressing up trying to be us How the ************* 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 (uh) You wanna ************* with us You Little young ass mother*******s Don't one of you *************s got sickle-cell or something You're ******g with me, *************? You ************* around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack You better back the ************* up Before you get smacked the ************* up This is how we do it on our side Any of you *************s from New York that want to bring it, Bring it. But we ain't singing, We bringing drama ************* you and your mother ******g mama. We're gonna kill all you mother *******s. Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie. Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother ******g opinion Well this is how we gonna' do this: ************* Mobb Deep, ************* Biggie, ************* Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother ******g crew. And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, Then ************* you too. Chino XL, ************* you too. All you mother *******s, ************* you too. (take money, take money) All of y'all mother *******s, ************* you, die slow mother*******. My four four (.44 magnum) make sure all your kids don't grow. You mother*******s can't be us or see us. We mother ******' Thug Life riders. West Side till' we die. Out here in California, ************* We warned ya' We'll bomb on you mother *******s. We do our job. You think you the mob, *************, we the mother******' mob Ain't nothing but killers And the real *************s, all you mother*******s feel us. Our *************t goes triple and four quadruple You *************s laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they mother******' belts You know how it is and we drop records they felt You *************s can't feel it We the realist ************* 'em. We Bad Boy killers.
