2pac Hit Em Up Nu Mixx Lyrics

Hit Em Up Nu Mixx Lyrics

So I fucked your bitch 

You fat mutha-fucka {Take Money} 

West Side


Bad Boy Killers {Take Money} 

You know who the realist is 

Niggas we bring it to {Take Money} 

[ha ha, that's alright] 



First off, fuck your bitch 

And the click you claim 

West side
when we ride 

Come equipped with game 

You claim to be a playa 

But, I fucked your wife 

We bust on Bad Boys 

Niggas fuck for Life


Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak 

Hearts I rip 

Biggie Smalls
and Junior Mafia 

Some mark ass bitches 

We keep on coming 

While we running for yah jewels 

Steady gunning 

Keep on busting
at them fools 

You know the rules 

Little Ceasar go ask you homie


How i'll leave yah 

Cut your young ass up 

See yah in pieces


Now be deceased 

Little Kim, 

Don't fuck 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 

Don't let the west
side 

Ride the night [ha ha] 

Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill


Fuck with me 

And get your caps peeled 

You know, See 



Grab your glocks when you see 2pac 

Call the cops when you see
2pac, Uhh 

Who shot me, 

But, your punks didn't finish 

Now,
you 'bout to feel the wrath of a menace 

Nigga, I hit 'em up 



Check this out 

You mutha-fuckas know what time it is 

I don't
know why I'm even on this track 

Y'all niggas ain't even on my level 

I'm going to let my little homies 

Ride on yah 

Bitch made ass Bad
Boys bitches 

{ahh yo, yo, hold the fuck 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 up traps 

Little accident
murderers 

And I ain't never heard of yah 

Poise less gats attack
when I'm serving yah 

Spank the shank 

Your whole style when I gank


Gaurd your rank 

Cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang 

Puffy
weaker than a fuckin' block 

I'm running through nigga 

And I'm
smoking Junior Mafia 

In front of yah nigga 

With the ready power


Tucked in my Guess 

Under my Eddie Bower 

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, Uhh 

Who shot me, 

But, your punks didn't finish 

Now, you 'bout to
feel the wrath of a menace 

Nigga, We hit 'em up 



Peep how
we do it 

Keep it real 

Its penitentary steel 

This ain't no
freestyle battle 

All you niggas getting killed 

With your mouths
open 

Tryin' to come up off of me 

You and the clouds hoping 

Smoking dope 

It's like a Shermine 

Niggas think they learned to
fly 

But they burn mutha-fucka you deserve to die 

Talking about
you Getting Money 

But its funny to me 

All you niggas living bummy


While you fucking with me? 

I'm a self made Millioniare 

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 bitch to
let you sleep on the house 

Now its 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 

Mutha-fucka 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 herds 

Now go check the scenerio


Little Ceas' 

I'll bring you fake G's to yah knees 

Copin'
please with these to de janerio 

Little Kim is yah 

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 fifteen shot, 

Cocked glock to your knot 

Outlaw Mafia click
moving up another knotch 

And your Pop star pops and get dropped and
mopped 

And all your fake ass east coast props 

Brainstormed and
locked 



You's a B-writer 

Pac style taker 

I'll tell
you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker 

Soften the Alize with a
chaser 

Bout to get murdered for the paper 

Idi Amin approach the
scene of the caper 

Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke [uhh] 

Toting smoke, we ain't no mutha-fuckin' 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 gottem crossed as soon as
the funk is boping off 

Nigga, 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 click 

Dressing up to be us 

How the fuck 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 [uhh] 

You wanna fuck with us 

You Little young ass
mutha-fuckas 

Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something 

You fucking with me, nigga ? 

You fuck around and catch a siezure 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 mother fucking mama.


We gonna kill all you mother fuckers. 

Now when I came out, I told
you it was just about biggie. 

Then everybody had to open their mouth
with a mother fuckin opinion 

Well this is how we gon' do this: 

Fuck Mobb Deep, 

Fuck Biggie, 

Fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record
label, and as a mother fuckin crew. 

And if you want to be down with Bad
Boy, 

Then fuck you too. 

Chino XL, fuck you too. 

All you
mother fuckers, 

Fuck you too. 

(take money, take money) 

All
of y'all mother fuckers, 

Fuck you, die slow mother fucker. 

My fo'
fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow. 

You mother fuckers
can't be us or see us. 

We mother fuckin' Thug Life riders. 

West
Side till' we die. 

Out here in California, nigga 

We warned ya'


We'll bomb on you mother fuckers. 

We do our job. 

You think
you the mob, nigga, we the mother fuckin' mob 

Ain't nuttin' but killers


And the real niggas, all you mother fuckers feel us. 

Our shit
goes tripple and four quadruple 

You niggas laugh cuz our staff got guns
under they mother fuckin' belts 

You know how it is and we drop records
they felt 

You niggas can't feel it 

We the realist 

Fuck
'em. 

We Bad Boy killas.