Song Info: First Off F Your B Song name is Hit ’Em Up which is sung by 2Pac ft. Outlawz & lyrics written by 2Pac, Johnny J, Yaki Kadafi, E.D.I. Mean & Hussein Fatal.
First Off F Your B Lyrics
[Intro: 2Pac]
Sucka-a$$
I ain’t got no motherf^^kin’ friends
That’s why I f^^ked yo’ b^^ch, you fat motherf^^ka!
(Take money) West Side, Bad Boy killas
(Take money) (You know) You know who the realest is
(Take money) n^^gas, we bring it too
That’s a’ight, ha ha
(Take money)
[Verse 1: 2Pac]
First off, f^^k your b^^ch and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I f^^ked your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, n^^gas f^^ked for life
Plus, Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. is some mark-a$$ b^^ches
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-a$$ up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil’ Kim, don’t f^^k around with real Gs
Quick to snatch yo’ ugly a$$ off the streets, so f^^k peace!
I’ll let them n^^gas know it’s on for life
Don’t let the Westside ride tonight (Ha ha)
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
f^^k 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
n^^ga, I hit ’em up! (Yeah)
[Interlude: 2Pac]
Check this out, you motherf^^kers know what time it is
I don’t even know why I’m on this track
Y’all n^^gas ain’t even on my level
I’ma let my lil’ homies ride
On you b^^ch-made a$$ Bad Boy b^^ches, feel it!
[Verse 2: Hussein Fatal]
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Mu’, pass the MAC and let me hit him in his back
Frank White needs to get spanked right for settin’ traps
Little accident murderer, and I ain’t never heard of ya
Poisonous gats attack when I’m servin’ ya
Spank ya, shank ya whole style when I gank
Guard your rank ’cause I’ma slam your a$$ in the paint
Puffy weaker than the f^^kin’ block I’m runnin’ through, n^^ga
And I’m smokin’ Junior M.A.F.I.A. in front of you, n^^ga
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
n^^ga, 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^^gas gettin’ killed with your mouths open
Tryna come up off of me, you in the clouds hopin’
Smokin’ dope, it’s like a sherm high
n^^gas think they learned to fly
But they burn, motherf^^ker, you deserve to die
Talkin’ about you gettin’ money, but it’s funny to me
All you n^^gas livin’ bummy while you f^^kin’ 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 b^^ch 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
Motherf^^ker, 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 doped up?
Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up
What the f^^k, is you stupid?
I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my click lootin’, shootin’ and pollutin’ your block
With a 15-shot cocked Glock to your knot
Outlaw MAFIA clique movin’ up another notch
And your pop stars popped and get mopped and dropped
All your fake-a$$ East Coast props brainstormed and locked
[Verse 5: E.D.I. Mean]
You’s a beat biter, a Pac style taker
I’ll tell you to your face, you ain’t sh^t but a faker
Softer than Alizé with a chaser
About to get murdered for the paper
E.D.I. Mean approach the scene of the caper
Like a loc, with Little Ceas’ in a choke
Gun totin’ smoke, we ain’t no motherf^^kin’ joke
Thug Life, n^^gas better be knowin’
We approachin’ in the wide open, gun smokin’
No need for hopin’, it’s a battle lost
I got ’em crossed as soon as the funk is boppin’ off
n^^ga, I hit ’em up!
[Outro: 2Pac]
Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run, hahahaha
They don’t wanna see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressin’ up tryna be us
How the f^^k they gonna be the mob
When we always on our job?
We millionaires
Killin’ ain’t fair, but somebody gotta do it
Oh yeah, Mobb Deep, you wanna f^^k with us?
You little young-a$$ motherf^^kers
Don’t one of you n^^gas got sickle-cell or somethin’?
You’re f^^kin’ with me, n^^ga
You f^^k around and have a seizure or a heart attack
You better back the f^^k up
Before you get smacked the f^^k up
This is how we do it on our side
Any of you n^^gas from New York that wanna bring it, bring it!
But we ain’t singin’, we bringin’ drama
f^^k you and yo’ motherf^^kin’ mama!
We gon’ kill all you motherf^^kers!
Now when I came out I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open their mouth
With a motherf^^kin’ opinion
Well, this is how we gonna do this: f^^k Mobb Deep! f^^k Biggie!
f^^k Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a motherf^^kin’ crew!
And if you wanna be down with Bad Boy, then f^^k you too!
Chino XL, f^^k you too!
All you motherf^^kers, f^^k you too!
(Take money, take money)
All of y’all motherf^^kers, f^^k you, die slow!
Motherf^^ker, my .44 make sho’ all y’all kids don’t grow!
You motherf^^kers can’t be us or see us
We motherf^^kin’ Thug Life ridas
Westside ’til we die!
Out here in California, n^^ga, we warned ya
We’ll bomb on you motherf^^kers! We do our job!
You think you mob? n^^ga, we the motherf^^kin’ mob!
Ain’t nothin’ but killas
And the real n^^gas, all you motherf^^kers feel us
Our sh^t goes triple and 4-quadruple
You n^^gas laugh ’cause our staff got guns under they motherf^^kas belts
You know how it is: when we drop records, they felt
You n^^gas can’t feel it, we the realest
f^^k ’em, we Bad Boy killas!