letra de all 2pac 1-90 songs: hit 'em up 5:14 - 2pac

[intro: 2pac]
take money (westside)
bad boy k!llers (take money, you know)
you know who the realest is, n-ggas, we bring it too (take money, that’s aight, haha)
take money (haha)
first off

[verse 1: 2pac]
f-ck yo’ b-tch and the clique you claim
westside, when we ride, come equipped with game
you claim da be a player, but i f-cked cho’ wife
we bust on bad boys, n-ggas f-cked for life
plus, puffy tryna see me, weak hearts i rip
biggie smalls and junior m.a.f.i.a., some mark-ass b-tches
we keep on coming while we running for your jеwels
steady-gunning, keep on busting at them fools
you know thе rules
lil’ caesar, go ask your homie how i’ll leave ya, cut cha young ass up
leave you in pieces
now, be deceased
lil’ kim, don’t f-ck around wit’ real g’s
quick da sn-tch yo’ ugly ass off the streets
so, f-ck peace
i’ll let them n-ggas know it’s on for life
don’t let the westside ride da night (haha)
bad boy murdered on wax and k!lled
f-ck with me and get cho’ caps peeled, ya know
see
[chorus 1: 2pac]
grab your glocks when you see 2pac
call the cops when you see 2pac, uh
who shot me? but cha punks didn’t finish
now ya ’bout da feel the wrath of a menace (uh-huh, yeah)
n-gga, i hit ’em up

[interlude: 2pac & hussein fatal]
check this out, chu motherf-ckers know what time it is (take money)
ion’t even know why i’m on this track (take money)
y’all n-ggas ain’t even on my level, i’ma let my lil’ homies ride (take money)
on you (ayo, ayo) b-tch-made-ass bad boy b-tches (hold the f-ck up, yeah, take money)
get out the way, yo

[verse 2: hussein fatal]
get out the way, yo
biggie smalls just got dropped
little mu’, pass the mac
and let me hit ’em in his back
frank white needs to get spanked right for setting traps, little accident murderer
and i ain’t never heard of ya
poisonous gats attack when i’m serving ya
spank ya, shank ya whole style when i gank
guard cha rank ’cause i’ma slam your ass in the paint
puffy weaker than the f-cking block i’m running through, n-gga
and i’m smoking junior m.a.f.i.a. in front of you, n-gga
with the ready power tucked in my guess under my eddie bauer
your clout petty, sour, i push packages every hour, hit ’em up
[chorus 2: 2pac]
grab your glocks when you see 2pac
call the cops when you see 2pac, uh
who shot me? but cha punks didn’t finish
now ya ’bout da feel the wrath of a menace (uh-huh, yeah)
n-gga, 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 n-ggas getting k!lled wit’ cha mouths open
tryna come up off of me, you in the clouds hoping
smoking dope, it’s like a sherm high, n-ggas think they learned a fly
but they burn, motherf-cker, you deserve da die
talking ’bout cha getting money, but it’s funny da me
all you n-ggas living bummy while you f-cking with me
i’m a self-made millionaire (‘naire)
thug living, out of prison, pistols in the air (air)
haha
biggie, remember when i used to let cha sleep on the couch
and begged a b-tch to let cha sleep in the house? uh
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 da set the record straight
with my ak, i’m still the thug that cha love da hate
motherf-cker, i hit ’em up
[verse 4: yaki kadafi & (e.d.i. mean)]
i’m from n-e-w jers’ where plenty murders occurs
no points or commas, we bring the drama to all you herbs
now, go check the scenario
little cease, 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 cha little junior whopper clique smoked up
what the f-ck, is you stupid?
i take money, crash, and mash through brooklyn
with my clique looting, shooting, and polluting your block
with 15-shot c-cked glock to your knot
outlaw mafia clique, moving up another notch
and your pop stars popped, get mopped and dropped
all your fake-ass east coast props brainstormed and locked (haha, you’s a)

[verse 5: e.d.i. mean]
beat biter, a pac-style taker
i’ll tell ya to your face, you ain’t sh-t but a faker
softer than alizé with a chaser
’bout da get murdered for the paper
e.d.i. mean approach the scene of the caper
like a loc, with lil’ caesar in a choke, gun-toting smoke
we ain’t no motherf-cking joke, thug life, n-ggas better be knowing
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
n-gga, i hit ’em up (up)

[outro: 2pac]
now, you tell me who won
i see them, they run, hehehe
they don’t wanna see us (take money)
whole junior m.a.f.i.a. clique-dressing up tryna be us (take money)
how the f-ck they gon’ be the mob when we always on our job? (take money) we millionaires
k!lling ain’t fair, but somebody gotta do it (take money)
oh, yeah, mobb deep, huh (take money)
you wanna f-ck with us?
you lil’ young-ass motherf-ckers (take money)
don’t one of you n-ggas got sickle-cell or something? (take money)
you’re f-cking with me, n-gga, you f-ck around and have a seizure or a heart attack (take money)
you better back the f-ck up ‘fore ya get smacked the f-ck up
this how we do it on our side
any of you n-ggas from new york that wanna bring it, bring it, but we ain’t singing
we bringing drama
f-ck you and yo’ motherf-cking mama
we gon’ k!ll all you motherf-ckers
now, when i came out, i told cha it was just about biggie
then everybody had a open they mouth with a motherf-cking opinion
well, this is how we gon’ do this:
f-ck mobb deep
f-ck biggie
f-ck bad boy as a staff, record label, and as a motherf-cking crew
and if you wanna be down with bad boy
then f-ck you too
chino xl
f-ck you too
all you motherf-ckers
f-ck you too (take money)
take money (all of y’all motherf-ckers, f-ck you, die slow, motherf-cker)
my .40-fo’ make sure all y’all kids don’t grow
you motherf-ckers can’t be us or see us
we motherf-cking thug life ridahs, westside, ’til we die
out here in california, n-gga, we warned ya we’ll bomb on you motherf-ckers
we do our job
you think you mob? n-gga, we the motherf-cking mob
ain’t none’ but k!llers and the real n-ggas, all you motherf-ckers feel us
our sh-ts go triple and four-quadruple (four-quadruple, take money)
you n-ggas laugh ’cause our staff got
guns in they motherf-ckers’ belts
you know how it is, when we drop records, they felt
you n-ggas can’t feel it
we the realest
f-ck ’em
we bad boy k!llers (we k!llers)

- 2pac

letras aleatórias

MAIS ACESSADOS