Presenting you “First Off F Your B Lyrics” by 2Pac ft. Outlawz. The song name is Hit’ Em Up.
First Off F Your B Lyrics
[Intro: Tupac] 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 s^^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 s^^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!
This is the end of “First Off F Your B Lyrics”.
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