So I fucked your bitch    You fat mutha-fucka {Take Money}    West Side    Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}    You know who the realist is    Niggas we bring it to {Take Money}    [ha ha, that's alright]       First off, fuck your bitch    And the click you claim    West side when we ride    Come equipped with game    You claim to be a playa    But, I fucked your wife    We bust on Bad Boys    Niggas fuck for Life    Plus Puffy tryin' to see me weak    Hearts I rip    Biggie Smalls and Junior Mafia    Some mark ass bitches    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 ass up    See yah in pieces    Now be deceased    Little Kim,    Don't fuck with real G's    Quick to snatch your ugly ass, off the streets    So fuck peace    I'll let them niggas know    It's on for Life    Don't let the west side    Ride the night [ha ha]    Bad Boys murdered on Wax and kill    Fuck 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    Nigga, I hit 'em up       Check this out    You mutha-fuckas know what time it is    I don't know why I'm even on this track    Y'all niggas ain't even on my level    I'm going to let my little homies    Ride on yah    Bitch made ass Bad Boys bitches    {ahh yo, yo, hold the fuck up}       Get out the way yo    Get out the way yo    Biggie Smalls just got dropped    Little move pass 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    Gaurd your rank    Cause I'm a slam your ass in a pang    Puffy weaker than a fuckin' block    I'm running through nigga    And I'm smoking Junior Mafia    In front of yah nigga    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    Nigga, We hit 'em up       Peep how we do it    Keep it real    Its penitentary steel    This ain't no freestyle battle    All you niggas 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    Niggas think they learned to fly    But they burn mutha-fucka you deserve to die    Talking about you Getting Money    But its funny to me    All you niggas living bummy    While you fucking with me?    I'm a self made Millioniare    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 bitch to let you sleep on 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up       I'm from N E W jers.    Where plenty of murders 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' please with these to de janerio    Little Kim is yah    Coked up or doped up    Get your little Junior Whopper click smoked up    What the fuck?    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 knotch    And your Pop star pops and get dropped and mopped    And all your fake ass east coast props    Brainstormed and locked       You's a B-writer    Pac style taker    I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker    Soften the Alize with a chaser    Bout to get murdered for the paper    Idi Amin approach the scene of the caper    Like a loc, with little Ceas' in a choke [uhh]    Toting smoke, we ain't no mutha-fuckin' joke    Thug Life, niggas 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 boping off    Nigga, 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 fuck 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 fuck with us    You Little young ass mutha-fuckas    Don't one of you niggas got sickle-cell or something    You fucking with me, nigga ?    You fuck around and catch a siezure or a heart-attack    You better back the fuck up    Before you get smacked the fuck up    This is how we do it on our side    Any of you niggas from New York that want to bring it,    Bring it.    But we ain't singing,    We bringing drama    Fuck you and your mother fucking mama.    We gonna kill all you mother fuckers.    Now when I came out, I told you it was just about biggie.    Then everybody had to open their mouth with a mother fuckin opinion    Well this is how we gon' do this:    Fuck Mobb Deep,    Fuck Biggie,    Fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a mother fuckin crew.    And if you want to be down with Bad Boy,    Then fuck you too.    Chino XL, fuck you too.    All you mother fuckers,    Fuck you too.    (take money, take money)    All of y'all mother fuckers,    Fuck you, die slow mother fucker.    My fo' fo' (.44 magnum) make sure all yo' kids don't grow.    You mother fuckers can't be us or see us.    We mother fuckin' Thug Life riders.    West Side till' we die.    Out here in California, nigga    We warned ya'    We'll bomb on you mother fuckers.    We do our job.    You think you the mob, nigga, we the mother fuckin' mob    Ain't nuttin' but killers    And the real niggas, all you mother fuckers feel us.    Our shit goes tripple and four quadruple    You niggas laugh cuz our staff got guns under they mother fuckin' belts    You know how it is and we drop records they felt    You niggas can't feel it    We the realist    Fuck 'em.    We Bad Boy killas.