East SiDe
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Re: East SiDe
Artist: Notorious B.I.G.
Album: Life After Death
Song: Hypnotize
Uhhh, uhhh, uh, c'mon
Verse One:
Hah, sicka than your average Poppa
Twist cabbage off instinct niggaz don't think shit stink
pink gators, my Detroit players
Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn
Dead right, if they head right, Biggie there Air Nike
Poppa been smooth since days of Underroos
Never lose, never choose to, bruise crews who
do something to us, talk go through us
Girls walk to us, wanna do us, screw us
Who us? Yeah, Poppa and Puff (ehehehe)
Close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch
Dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3
(Take that, take that, take that, haha!)
Bang every MC easily, busily
Recently niggaz frontin ain't sayin nuttin (nope)
So I just speak my piece, (c'mon) keep my piece
Cubans with the Jesus piece (thank you God), with my peeps
Packin, askin who want it, you got it nigga flaunt it
That Brooklyn bullshit, we on it
Chorus: sung in imitation of part of Slick Rick's "La-Di-Da-Di"
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (hah)
Verse Two:
I put hoes in NY onto DKNY (uh-huh)
Miami, D.C. prefer Versace (that's right)
All Philly hoes, dough and Moschino (c'mon)
Every cutie wit a booty bought a Coogi (haaaaah!)
Now who's the real dookie, meanin who's really the shit
Them niggaz ride dicks, Frank White push the sticks
on the Lexus, LX, four and a half
Bulletproof glass tints if I want some ass
Gon' blast squeeze first ask questions last
That's how most of these so-called gangsters pass
At last, a nigga rappin bout blunts and broads
Tits and bras, menage-a-tois, sex in expensive cars
I still leave you on the pavement
Condo paid for, no car payment
At my arraignment, note for the plantiff
Your daughter's tied up in a Brooklyn basement (shhh)
Face it, not guilty, that's how I stay filthy (not guilty)
Richer than Richie, till you niggaz come and get me
Chorus:
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (huh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Verse Three:
I can fill ya wit real millionaire shit (I can fill ya)
Escargot, my car go, one sixty, swiftly
Wreck it buy a new one
Your crew run run run, your crew run run
I know you sick of this, name brand nigga wit
flows girls say he's sweet like licorice
So get with this nigga, it's easy
Girlfriend here's a pen, call me round ten
Come through, have sex on rugs that's Persian (that's right)
Come up to your job, hit you while you workin (uhh)
for certain, Poppa freakin, not speakin
Leave that ass leakin, like rapper demo
Tell them hoe, take they clothes off slowly
Hit em wit the force like Obe, dick black like Toby (Obe...Toby)
Watch me roam like Gobe, lucky they don't owe me
Where the safe show me, homey.. (say what, homey)
Chorus:
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid
*fades*
Artist: Notorious B.I.G.
Album: Life After Death
Song: Hypnotize
Uhhh, uhhh, uh, c'mon
Verse One:
Hah, sicka than your average Poppa
Twist cabbage off instinct niggaz don't think shit stink
pink gators, my Detroit players
Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn
Dead right, if they head right, Biggie there Air Nike
Poppa been smooth since days of Underroos
Never lose, never choose to, bruise crews who
do something to us, talk go through us
Girls walk to us, wanna do us, screw us
Who us? Yeah, Poppa and Puff (ehehehe)
Close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch
Dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3
(Take that, take that, take that, haha!)
Bang every MC easily, busily
Recently niggaz frontin ain't sayin nuttin (nope)
So I just speak my piece, (c'mon) keep my piece
Cubans with the Jesus piece (thank you God), with my peeps
Packin, askin who want it, you got it nigga flaunt it
That Brooklyn bullshit, we on it
Chorus: sung in imitation of part of Slick Rick's "La-Di-Da-Di"
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (hah)
Verse Two:
I put hoes in NY onto DKNY (uh-huh)
Miami, D.C. prefer Versace (that's right)
All Philly hoes, dough and Moschino (c'mon)
Every cutie wit a booty bought a Coogi (haaaaah!)
Now who's the real dookie, meanin who's really the shit
Them niggaz ride dicks, Frank White push the sticks
on the Lexus, LX, four and a half
Bulletproof glass tints if I want some ass
Gon' blast squeeze first ask questions last
That's how most of these so-called gangsters pass
At last, a nigga rappin bout blunts and broads
Tits and bras, menage-a-tois, sex in expensive cars
I still leave you on the pavement
Condo paid for, no car payment
At my arraignment, note for the plantiff
Your daughter's tied up in a Brooklyn basement (shhh)
Face it, not guilty, that's how I stay filthy (not guilty)
Richer than Richie, till you niggaz come and get me
Chorus:
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (huh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Verse Three:
I can fill ya wit real millionaire shit (I can fill ya)
Escargot, my car go, one sixty, swiftly
Wreck it buy a new one
Your crew run run run, your crew run run
I know you sick of this, name brand nigga wit
flows girls say he's sweet like licorice
So get with this nigga, it's easy
Girlfriend here's a pen, call me round ten
Come through, have sex on rugs that's Persian (that's right)
Come up to your job, hit you while you workin (uhh)
for certain, Poppa freakin, not speakin
Leave that ass leakin, like rapper demo
Tell them hoe, take they clothes off slowly
Hit em wit the force like Obe, dick black like Toby (Obe...Toby)
Watch me roam like Gobe, lucky they don't owe me
Where the safe show me, homey.. (say what, homey)
Chorus:
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie (uh-huh) can't you see (uh)
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me (hip to)
And I just love your flashy ways (uh-huh)
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid (uh)
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid
*fades*
(remember?).Re: East SiDe
Artist: [qb]2Pac f/ The Outlaws[/qb]
Album: Greatest Hits
Song: [qb]Hit 'Em Up[/qb]
Homepage: http://hem.passagen.se/deathrow/
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 ass 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' pleas with these [???]
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 stars" 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
Artist: [qb]2Pac f/ The Outlaws[/qb]
Album: Greatest Hits
Song: [qb]Hit 'Em Up[/qb]
Homepage: http://hem.passagen.se/deathrow/
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 ass 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' pleas with these [???]
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 stars" 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