Lyrics: 2Pac/Duane S. Hitchings/Franne Golde/Dennis Lambert/Johnny Jackson/Yafeu Fula/Malcolm Greenidge/Bruce Washington
Music: 2Pac/Duane S. Hitchings/Franne Golde/Dennis Lambert/Johnny Jackson/Yafeu Fula/Malcolm Greenidge/Bruce Washington
[Intro: 2Pac]
Sucka-ass
I ain't got no mother****in' friends
That's why I ****ed yo' *****, you fat mother****a!
(Take money) West Side, Bad Boy killas
(Take money) (You know) You know who the realest is
(Take money) niggas, we bring it too
That's a'ight, ha ha
(Take money)
[Verse 1: 2Pac]
First off, **** your ***** and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I ****ed your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, niggas ****ed for life
Plus, Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. is some mark-ass *******
We keep on comin' while we runnin' for your jewels
Steady gunnin', keep on bustin' at them fools, you know the rules
Lil' Caesar, go ask your homie how I'll leave ya
Cut your young-ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil' Kim, don't **** around with real Gs
Quick to snatch yo' ugly ass off the streets, so **** peace!
I'll let them niggas know it's on for life
Don't let the Westside ride tonight (Ha ha)
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
**** with me and get yo' caps peeled, you know
[Chorus: 2Pac]
See, grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But you punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga, I hit 'em up! (Yeah)
[Interlude: 2Pac]
Check this out, you mother****ers know what time it is
I don't even know why I'm on this track
Y'all niggas ain't even on my level
I'ma let my lil' homies ride
On you *****-made ass Bad Boy *******, feel it!
[Verse 2: Hussein Fatal]
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Mu', pass the MAC and let me hit him in his back
Frank White needs to get spanked right for settin' traps
Little accident murderer, and I ain't never heard of ya
Poisonous gats attack when I'm servin' ya
Spank ya, shank ya whole style when I gank
Guard your rank 'cause I'ma slam your ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than the ****in' block I'm runnin' through, nigga
And I'm smokin' 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!
[Chorus: 2Pac]
Grab your Glocks when you see 2Pac
Call the cops when you see 2Pac, uh
Who shot me? But you punks didn't finish
Now you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga, we hit 'em up!
[Verse 3: 2Pac]
Peep how we do it, keep it real as penitentiary steel
This ain't no freestyle battle
All you niggas gettin' killed with your mouths open
Tryna come up off of me, you in the clouds hopin'
Smokin' ****, it's like a sherm high
Niggas think they learned to fly
But they burn, mother****er, you deserve to die
Talkin' about you gettin' money, but it's funny to me
All you niggas livin' bummy while you ****in' with me
I'm a self-made millionaire
Thug livin', out of prison, pistols in the air (ha ha)
Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on the couch
And beg a ***** 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 AK, I'm still the thug that you love to hate
Mother****er, I hit 'em up!
[Verse 4: Kadafi]
I'm from N-E-W Jers' where plenty of murders occurs
No points or commas, we bring the drama to all you herbs
Now go check the scenario: Lil' Cease
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 click smoked up
What the ****, is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click lootin', shootin' and pollutin' your block
With a 15-shot ****ed Glock to your knot
Outlaw MAFIA clique movin' up another notch
And your pop stars popped and get mopped and dropped
All your fake-ass East Coast props brainstormed and locked
[Verse 5: 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 AlizΓ© 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 mother****in' joke
Thug Life, niggas better be knowin'
We approachin' in the wide open, gun smokin'
No need for hopin', it's a battle lost
I got 'em crossed as soon as the funk is boppin' off
Nigga, I hit 'em up!
[Outro: 2Pac]
Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run, hahahaha
They don't wanna see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressin' up tryna be us
How the **** they gonna be the mob
When we always on our job?
We millionaires
Killin' ain't fair, but somebody gotta do it
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep, you wanna **** with us?
You little young-ass mother****ers
Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or somethin'?
You're ****in' with me, nigga
You **** around and have 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 niggas from New York that wanna bring it, bring it!
But we ain't singin', we bringin' drama
**** you and yo' mother****in' mama!
We gon' kill all you mother****ers!
Now when I came out I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open their mouth
With a mother****in' opinion
Well, this is how we gonna do this: **** Mobb Deep! **** Biggie!
**** Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother****in' crew!
And if you wanna be down with Bad Boy, then **** you too!
Chino XL, **** you too!
All you mother****ers, **** you too!
(Take money, take money)
All of y'all mother****ers, **** you, die slow!
Mother****er, my .44 make sho' all y'all kids don't grow!
You mother****ers can't be us or see us
We mother****in' Thug Life ridas
Westside 'til we die!
Out here in California, nigga, we warned ya
We'll bomb on you mother****ers! We do our job!
You think you mob? Nigga, we the mother****in' mob!
Ain't nothin' but killas
And the real niggas, all you mother****ers feel us
Our shit goes triple and 4-quadruple
You niggas laugh 'cause our staff got guns under they mother****as belts
You know how it is: when we drop records, they felt
You niggas can't feel it, we the realest
**** 'em, we Bad Boy killas!