Hit 'Em Up
by Tyga

Album: Hotel California (2013)
Play Video
  • I ain't got no motherfuckin friends
    That's why I fucked yo' bitch, you fat motherfucker
    (Take money) West side, Bad Boy killers (take money)
    You know who the realest is niggaz we bring it to you (take money)
    (Take money)

    First off, fuck your bitch and the click 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 Boy niggaz fucked for life
    Plus Puffy tryin' ta see me weak hearts I rip
    Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. Some mark-ass bitches
    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 ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
    Lil' Kim, don't fuck around with real G's
    Quick to snatch yo' ugly ass off the streets, so fuck peace
    I let them niggaz know it's on for life
    So let the Westside ride tonight
    Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
    Fuck 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
    Nigga, I hit em' up

    Check this out, you motherfuckers know what time it is (take money)
    I don't even know why I'm on this track (take money)
    Y'all niggaz ain't even on my level
    I'ma let my little homies ride on you (take money)
    Bitch made-ass bad boy bitches deal with it!

    Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
    Biggie Smalls just got dropped
    Little Moo, pass 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 ass in the paint
    Puffy weaker than the fuckin' 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 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
    Nigga, I hit em' up

    Peep how we do it, keep it real, it's penitentiary steel
    This ain't no freestyle battle
    All you niggaz 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 niggaz think they learned to fly
    But they burn motherfucker, you deserve to die
    Talkin' bout you gettin' money but it's funny to me
    All you niggaz livin' bummy why you fuckin' 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 bitch 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
    Motherfucker, 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 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 totin' 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 (take money)
    Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. Clique
    Dressing up trying to be us (take money)
    How the fuck 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 fuck with us
    You little young-ass motherfuckers (take money)
    Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something (take money)
    You're fucking with me, nigga you fuck around and catch a seizure or a heart attack (take money)
    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 (take money, take money)
    All of y'all mother fuckers, fuck you, die slow, motherfucker
    My .44 make sure all y'all 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
    (Take money)
    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 realest
    Fuck 'em, we Bad Boy-killers Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind


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