Hit em up lyrics | Tupac Shakur Song Lyrics
Yeah
Ayo
I think y'all gonna like this next song
When this song drops, I want all the West coast people to give up some love when this song come up
Y'all about to go crazy
They try to ban this song
They don't wanna play my song
But they want to play Fat Boy all goddamn day
Come on, come on (take money)
Come on, come on (take money)
What's up niggas
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, we hit em' up
Yes, yo, Outlaw to this mutherfucker (take money)
West Coast, what's up? (take money)
What's up
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smalls just got shot
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
Oh
Call the cops, when you see Tupac
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 A.K. 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
nigga, better be known
We 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
Oh oh
Hah
yeah
We hit 'em up
Grab ya glocks, when you see Tupac
Come on with the next shit
Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish
Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga, we hit em' up
That's right
Go
Yo
Y'all gotta keep this shit real
Ayo
I think y'all gonna like this next song
When this song drops, I want all the West coast people to give up some love when this song come up
Y'all about to go crazy
They try to ban this song
They don't wanna play my song
But they want to play Fat Boy all goddamn day
Come on, come on (take money)
Come on, come on (take money)
What's up niggas
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, we hit em' up
Yes, yo, Outlaw to this mutherfucker (take money)
West Coast, what's up? (take money)
What's up
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smalls just got shot
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
Oh
Call the cops, when you see Tupac
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 A.K. 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
nigga, better be known
We 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
Oh oh
Hah
yeah
We hit 'em up
Grab ya glocks, when you see Tupac
Come on with the next shit
Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish
Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace
Nigga, we hit em' up
That's right
Go
Yo
Y'all gotta keep this shit real
Song Writers:
Bruce Washington / Dennis Lambert / Duane S. Hitchings / Frannie Golde / Johnny Lee Jackson / Malcolm Greenidge / Tupac Amaru Shakur
Sung By:
Tupac Shakur
