Hit 'Em Up 2 Lyrics & Tabs by 2Pac
Hit 'Em Up 2
guitar chords lyrics
(I ain't got no motherfucking friends)
That's why I fucked your bitch, you fat motherfucker
West Side! Bad Boy killers!
You know who this is
(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 fuck for Life
Plus Puffy trying to see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior MAFIA 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
Little Ceasar go ask you homie how I'll leave you
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 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
So let the Westside ride the night
Bad Boys murdered on wax and killed
Fuck with me and get your caps peeled. You know
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 about to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga I hit em up!
Check this out:
You motherfuckers know what time it is
I don't know why I'm even on this track
You all niggas ain't even on my level
I'm going to let my little homies
Ride on you bitch-made ass Bad Boys bitches
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 up 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'm a slam your ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than the fuckin' block I'm running through, nigga
And I'm smoking Junior MAFIA in front of you, nigga
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
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 about to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga I 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
While you fucking with me
I'm a self-made millionaire!
Thug livin', out of prison
Pistols in the air
Biggie remember when I use to let you sleep on the couch
And beg the 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 A-K, I'm still the thug that you love to hate
Motherfucker I'll hit em up
I'm from N E W Jers'
Where plenty of murders occurs
No points to come, 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 with these
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
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 Amin approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc, with Little Ceas' in a choke
Gun pistol 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!
Now you tell me who won?
I see them, they run
They don't wanna see us
Whole Junior MAFIA clique dressing up to be us
How the fuck they gonna be the mob when we always on out job?
We millionaires, killing ain't fair but somebody got to do it
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep: you wanna fuck with us?
You little young-ass motherfuckers
Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something?
You're fucking with me, nigga
You fuck around and catch a seizure or a heart-attack
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're gonna 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
All of y'all mother fuckers, fuck you, die slow, motherfucker
My .44 make sure all your 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
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 realist
Fuck em, we Bad Boy-killers
