Danny Brown – Theme Song Lyrics

Play this song

[Verse 1]
You can act stupid if you want to
Never play by the rules, do just what I want to
Came up in this bitch tongue out without a front tooth
Now who they say is number one influencer, he number two (Yeah)
Yeah, he dance good, but guess where he got the moves?
But compared to me, look like he wear two left shoes (Uh)
Boy, I treat them lil’ virgins like the restroom
Take my hand and dance with the devil (Yeah)
Oh, boy, you in trouble, rattled the lion cage
Hope God strikes you down while you’re prayin’ on stage (Uh)
Jit at your burial, smoke squares at your grave
Then repent for my sins like, “God, I’m saved” (Alright)
He always forgive, later on, I forget
I had my fingers crossed, so I’m back on that shit
Catch another body ‘fore the song get mixed
The bullets is the lyrics, turn the rapper to a spirit (Yeah)
Singin’ with the angels, nigga long gone
Your song’s like bitch, a belly long, wear the thong wrong (Uh)
Nigga, I’m the wrong one to run on
My balls on her Kit-Kat, now she playin’ ping-pong (Alright)

Nigga, this the theme song for bitch-ass niggas
Got a little richer, now their head all bigger
Nigga, this the theme song for bitch-ass niggas
Got a little richer, now their head all bigger (Yeah)

[Verse 2]
Listen here, Little Richard, I don’t know what got into you
Did more for the game than you (Yeah)
That’s why I had to cut into ya, ya need to be checked
Lil’ niggas need to learn some respect (Alright)
When your show’s like the Rockettes, with some majorettes
Gimme a mic, and a DJ, and I’m set (Yeah)
‘Cause these bars on deck, ain’t gotta shake my ass
You the real definition of “ants in your pants”
Got a son, lil’ niggas, no child support (Yeah)
Sorta like the Bad Boys up against Jordan
But, nigga, you ain’t scorin’, not on me
Wrote this one on one knee, R.I.P. to P (Damn)
Taught me to keep it real, stand on my own (Yeah)
If I got you, rock a nigga brain with his nose bone
No time for the gimmicks (Yeah)
And I ain’t gotta lie when I say I’m independent (Alright)

Nigga, this the theme song for bitch-ass niggas
Got a little richer, now their head all bigger
Nigga, this the theme song for bitch-ass niggas (Yeah)
Got a little richer, now their head all bigger (Damn)


2Pac – Hit ’em Up (Dirty)

[Intro: 2Pac]
I ain’t got no motherfuckin’ friends
That’s why I fucked yo’ bitch, you fat motherfucker!
(Take money) West Side, Bad Boy killers
(Take money) You know who the realest is
(Take money) We bring it too
(Take money)

[Verse 1: 2Pac]
First off, fuck yo’ bitch and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I fucked your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, niggas fucked for life
Plus, Puffy tryna see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. is some mark-ass bitches
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-ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil’ Kim, don’t fuck around with real G’s
Quick to snatch yo’ ugly ass off the streets, so fuck peace!
I’ll let them niggas know it’s on for life
Don’t let the Westside ride tonight (ha ha ha)
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
Fuck with me and get yo’ caps peeled, you know

[Hook: 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
Nigga, I hit ’em up!

[Interlude: 2Pac]
Check this out, you motherfuckers 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’ma let my little homies ride
On you bitch-made ass Bad Boy bitches, feel it!

[Verse 2: Hussein Fatal]
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
Biggie Smalls just got dropped
Little Moo’, 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 ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than the fuckin’ block I’m runnin’ through, nigga
And I’m smokin’ Junior M.A.F.I.A. in front of you, nigga
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!

[Hook: 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
Nigga, I 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 niggas 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
Niggas think they learned to fly
But they burn, motherfucker, you deserve to die
Talkin’ about you gettin’ money, but it’s funny to me
All you niggas livin’ bummy — why you fuckin’ 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 bitch 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
Motherfucker, 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 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 fuck, 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-ass 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 shit but a faker
Softer than Alize 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 motherfuckin’ joke
Thug Life, niggas 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
Nigga, I hit ’em up!

[Outro: 2Pac]
Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run, ha ha
They don’t wanna see us
Whole Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique dressin’ up tryna be us
How the fuck 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 fuck with us?
You little young-ass motherfuckers
Don’t one of you niggas got sickle-cell or somethin’?
You’re fuckin’ with me, nigga
You fuck around and have a seizure 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 wanna bring it, bring it!
But we ain’t singin’, we bringin’ drama
Fuck you and yo’ motherfuckin’ mama!
We gon’ kill all you motherfuckers!
Now when I came out I told you it was just about Biggie
Then everybody had to open their mouth
With a motherfuckin’ opinion
Well, this is how we gonna do this: fuck Mobb Deep! Fuck Biggie!
Fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label and as a motherfuckin’ crew!
And if you wanna be down with Bad Boy, then fuck you too!
Chino XL: fuck you too!
All you motherfuckers, fuck you too!
(Take money, take money)
All of y’all motherfuckers, fuck you, die slow!
Motherfucker, my .44 make sho’ all y’all kids don’t grow!
You motherfuckers can’t be us or see us
We motherfuckin’ Thug Life-riders, Westside ’til we die!
Out here in California, nigga, we warned ya
We’ll bomb on you motherfuckers! We do our job!
You think you mob? Nigga, we the motherfuckin’ mob!
Ain’t nothin’ but killers and the real niggas
All you motherfuckers feel us
Our shit goes triple and 4-quadruple
You niggas laugh ’cause our staff got guns under their motherfuckin’ belts
You know how it is: when we drop records, they felt
You niggas can’t feel it, we the realest
Fuck ’em, we Bad Boy killers!

Injury Reserve – Bad Boys 3 (Floss Album)

(I can’t live my, I, I can’t live my)
(I can’t live my, I, I can’t live my)
I can’t live my, I, I can’t live my
I can’t live my life this way)

[Verse 1: Steppa J. Groggs]
I went from niggas telling me I really shouldn’t rhyme
To dropping a classic album motherfuckers couldn’t find
Bad boy like Will and Martin in ’95
Bad boy, I’m Isiah Thomas in his prime
Yeah, you know it’s Mr. Lackadaisical
Corny motherfucker but my voice sounds amazing though
Shit y’all trying to do, we done done days ago
Chilling in the desert, but you can tell The Bay’s my home
Ya my name is Step and I probably need like twelve of those
Black Tee, A’s fitted, chinos and some shell toes
Been nice since I was wearing baggy ass girbauds
Use to rhyme my shit on The Bart headed to the ‘Sco
All this time passed, feeling better than before
Gone for a minute, falling off hell no
I’m telling y’all that’ll be the day that hell froze
Ya I’m telling y’all that’ll be the day that hell froze

[Verse 2: Ritchie with a T]
Check it, yo, motherfuck the police
We the new Bad Boys, but that’s a different story
Groggsie might go he drinking 40 after 40
But if I’m goin out I hope I’m going like I’m Kobe
Wassup (yeah), man we look like rap Weezer
But you think it’s all hooks, bring back “Ether”
Stunting all season, got to floss often
Man I’m dressed like Carlton
I’m the black Ben Carson
Wassup, Jesus Christ had dreads so shake ’em
I ain’t got none cause I cut them off, that was dumb
I had to do it like fuck it
The white girls were always like, “Can I touch it?”
Wassup, oh shit, break your neck
This that Busta Bust ’02 chase a check
This that Belly shit, bald fade demand respect
Balotelli shit, I got it but couldn’t give two shits
I can skate on this
I stay on my p’s and q’s like I came from Fig
Got it down to the T cause my name’s legit
Killing it since Motorola Razors paper thin