2pac - Live it up lyrics

f** I ain't got no motherf**in friends That's why I f**ed yo' b**h, you fat motherf**er (take money) West side!! Bad Boy k**ers (take money) You know the realest is n***as (take money) We bring it to you (take money) Verse One: 2Pac First off, f** your b**h and the clique you claim West side when we ride come equipped with game You claim to be a player but I f**ed your wife We bust on Bad Boy n***as f** for life Plus Puffy tryin ta see me weak, hearts I rip Biggie Smallz and Junior M.A.F.I.A. some mark a** b**hes We keep on comin' while we runnin for ya j**els Steady gunnin, keep on bustin at the fools, you know the rules Little Ceaser, go ask ya homie how I leave ya Cut your young a** up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased Lil Kim, don't f** around with real G's Quick to snatch yo' ugly a** off tha street, so f** peace I let them n***as know it's on for life So let the West side ride tonight hahahah Bad Boy murdered on wax, and k**ed f** wit' me and get yo caps peeled, you know ... see ... Chorus: Grab ya Glocks, when you see 2Pac Call the cops, when you see 2Pac, uhh Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace ni**a, I hit em' up... Interlude: 2Pac Check this out, you muthaf**as know what time it is I don't even know why I'm on this track Ya'll n***as ain't even on my level I'ma let my little homies ride on you b**h made-a** bad boy b**hes, feel it! Verse Two: Fatal Get out the way yo, get out the way yo Biggie Smallz just got dropped Little Moo, pa** the Mac, and let me hit him in his back Frank White need to get spanked right, for settin traps Little accident murderer, and I ain't never heard-a 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 you a** in the paint Puffy weaker than the f**in block I run on you n***a And I'll smoke ya junior mafia in front of you n***a With the ready power tuckin my Guess under my Eddie Bauer Ya clout, pretty sour I get packages every hour And hit em up Chorus Grab ya Glocks, when you see 2Pac Call the cops, when you see 2Pac, uhh Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace ni**a, we hit em' up... Verse Three: 2Pac Peep how we do it, keep it real, it's penitentiary steel This ain't no freestyle battle, all you n***as gettin k**ed with ya mouths open Tryin to come up offa me, you in the clouds hoping Smokin dope it's like a sherm high n***as think they learned to fly But they burn muthaf**a, you deserve to die Talkin bout you gettin money, but its funny to me All you n***as living bummy, why you're f**in' with me I'm a self made milionare Thug Livin out a prison, pistols in the air, hahaha Biggie, remember when I used to let you sleep on tha couch And beg the b**h to let you sleep in the house, ahh Now its 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 AK I'm still the thug that you love to hate Motherf**er, I hit em up Verse Four: Kadafi I'm from N-E-W Jerz, where plenty murders occur No point to comment , we bringin drama to all you herbs Knuckle check the scenario, Little Cease I bring you fake G's to your knees Coppin pleas in de janeiro Lil Kim, is you coked up, or doped up? Get ya lil Junior whopper clique smoked up, what the f** Is you STUPID?!?! I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn With my clique lootin, shootin and pollutin ya block With 15 shots co*ked Glock to your knot Outlaw mafia clique movin up another notch And you bast stops squaws get mopped and dropped All your fake-a** east coast props brainstormed and locked Verse Five: Idi Amin You is a, b writer, a Pac style taker I'll tell you to ya face you ain't sh** but a faker Softer than Alizee with a chaser Bout to get murdered for the paper Idi Amin approach the scene of the caper Like a loc, with little ceaser in a choke hold Totin smoke, we ain't no muthaf**in joke Thug Life, n***as betta be known, we approachin In the wide open, guns smokin No need for hopin its a battle lost, I got em crossed Soon as the funk is poppin off n***a I hit em up Outro: 2Pac Now you tell me who won I see them, they run They don't wanna see us Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. click dressin up tryin ta be us How the f** they gonna be the mob when we always on our job We millionaires, k**in ain't fair but somebody gotta do it Oh yeah, Mobb Deep, you wanna f** with us? You little young a** motherf**ers Don't one of you n***as got sickle cell or somethin? You f**in with me n***a you f** around And have a seizure or a heart-attack You better back the f** up, before you get smacked the f** up That's how we do it on our side Any of you n***as from New York that wanna bring it, bring it But we ain't singin, we bringin drama f** you and your motherf**in mama We gonna k** all you motherf**ers Now when I came out I told you it was just about Biggie Then everybody had to open their mouth with a motherf**in opinion Well this how we gonna do this f** Mobb Deep f** Biggie f** Bad Boy as a staff record label And as a motherf**in crew And if you wanna be down with Bad Boy Then f** you too Chino XL, f** you too All you motherf**ers, f** you too (take money) (take money) Alla y'all motherf**ers, f** you die slow motherf**er My fo'-fo' make sure all y'all kids don't grow You motherf**ers can't be us or see us We the motherf**in Thug Life riders West side till we die! Out here in California n***a we warn ya we'll bomb on you motherf**ers We do our job You think you mob, n***a we the motherf**in mob Ain't nuttin but k**ers and fa'real n***as All you motherf**ers feel us Our sh**'s going triple and four-quadruple (take money) You n***as laugh coz our staff got guns in they Motherf**ers belt, you know how it is When we drop records they felt You n***as can't feel it We the realest, fu*k EM, we Bad Boy k**az *echoes*