norman

So I f**ked your bi**h You fat mutha-f**ka {Take Money} West Side Bad Boy Killers {Take Money} You know who the realist is ni**as we bring it to {Take Money} (ha ha, that's alright) First off, f**k your bi**h And the click you claim West side when we ride Come equipped with game You claim to be a playa But, I f**ked your wife We bust on Bad Boys ni**as f**k for Life Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak Hearts I rip Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia Some mark a*s bi**hes 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 a*s up See yah in pieces Now be deceased Little Kim, Don't f**k with real a*s G's Quick to snatch your ugly a*s, off the streets So f**k peace I'll let them ni**as know It's on for Life Don't let the west side Ride the night (ha ha) Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill f**k 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 ni**a, I hit 'em up Check this out You mutha-f**kas know what time it is I don't know why I'm even on this track Y'all ni**as ain't even on my level I'm going to let my little homies Ride on yah bi**h made a*s Bad Boys bi**hes {ahh yo, yo, hold the f**k up} Get out the way yo Get out the way yo Biggie Smalls just got dropped Little move pa*s 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 Guard your rank Cause I'm a slam your a*s in a pang Puffy weaker than a f**kin' block I'm running through ni**a And I'm smoking Junior Mafia In front of yah ni**a 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 ni**a, We hit 'em up Peep how we do it Keep it real Its penitentiary steel This ain't no freestyle battle All you ni**as 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 ni**as think they learned to fly But they burn mutha-f**ka you deserve to die Talking about you Getting Money But its funny to me All you ni**as living bummy While you f**king with me I'm a self made Millionaire 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 bi**h to let you sleep in 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-f**ka I'll Hit 'Em Up I'm from N W New Jers. Where plenty of murder 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' pleas with these Little Kim is yah 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 looting, shooting, and polluting your block With fifteen shot, Cocked glock to your knot Outlaw Mafia click moving up another notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake a*s east coast props Brainstormed and locked You'se a B-writer Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing s**t but a faker So fill the Alazhay with a chaser 'bout to get murdered for the paper E.d.i I mean post the scene of the caper Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke (uhh) Toting smoke, we ain't no mutha-f**kin' joke Thug Life, ni**as 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 bopping off ni**a, 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 f**k 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 f**k with us You Little young a*s mutha-f**kas Don't one of you ni**as got sickle-cell or something You f**king with me, ni**a You f**k around and catch 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 ni**as from New York that want to bring it, Bring it. But we ain't singing, We bringing drama f**k you and your mother f**king mama. We gonna kill all you mother f**kers. Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie. Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother f**kin opinion Well this is how we gon' do this: f**k Mobb Deep, f**k Biggie, f**k Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother f**kin crew. And if you want to be down with Bad Boy, Then f**k you too. Chino XL, f**k you too. All you mother f**kers, f**k you too. (take money, take money) All of y'all mother f**kers, f**k you, die slow mother f**ker. My fo' fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow. You mother f**kers can't be us or see us. We mother f**kin' Thug Life riders. West Side till' we die. Out here in California, ni**a We warned ya' We'll bomb on you mother f**kers. We do our job. You think you the mob, ni**a, we the mother f**kin' mob Ain't nuttin' but killers And the real ni**as, all you mother f**kers feel us. Our s**t goes triple and four quadruple You ni**as laugh cuz our staff got guns under they mother f**kin' belts You know how it is and we drop records they felt You ni**as can't feel it We the realist f**k 'em. We Bad Boy killas.