"Fast car" is kind of a continuation of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." It has all the clawing your way to a better life, but in this case the protagonist never makes it with her love; in fact she is dragged back down by him.
There is still an amazing amount of hope and will in the lyrics; and the lyrics themselve rank and easy five. If only music was stronger it would be one of those great radio songs that you hear once a week 20 years after it was released. The imagery is almost tear-jerking ("City lights lay out before us", "Speeds so fast felt like I was drunk"), and the idea of starting from nothing and just driving and working and denigrating yourself for a chance at being just above poverty, then losing in the end is just painful and inspiring at the same time.
I ain't got no friends
(take money) Yeah, I'ma do this track
West side!!
(take money) MOB, Bad Boy killers
(take money) Hahahaha, hey fat boy...
(take money)
Verse One: 2Pac
First off, touch your chick and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I bust your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, brothers touch for life
Plus Puffy trying to see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. some mark-ass tricks
We keep on coming while we running for your jewels
Steady gunning, keep on busting at them fools
You know the rules
Little Ceaser, go ask your homie how I'll leave you
Cut your trick ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil Kim, don't play around with real G's
Quick to snatch your ugly hair off the streets
You Little weave! I'll let them suckas know it's on for life
Don't let the Westside ride the night haha
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
Mess with me and get your 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
Busta, I hit em' up...
Interlude: 2Pac
Yeah, straight out on the Bad Boy camp
You know how we do it
All my real homeboys in New York keep thuggin'
All the rest of you bustas die slow!
Verse Two: Fatal
Get out the way yo, Hussein Fatal
Biggie Smallz just got dropped
Little Moo, pass 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 ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than a block I run on you
And I'll smoke ya junior mafia in front of you
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
Busta, 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 suckers gettin
Killed with ya mouths open
Tryin to come up offa me, you in the clouds hoping
Smokin dope it's like a sherm high
Brothers think they learned to fly
But they burn little suckers, you deserve to die
Talkin bout you gettin money, but its funny to me
All you suckers living bummy, why you're messin' 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 trick 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
Little busta, 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
Big Momma, is you coked up, or doped up?
Get ya lil Junior whopper clique smoked up, Please tell me
Is you STUPID?!?! I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my clique lootin, shootin and pollutin ya block
With 15 shots cocked Glock to your knot
Outlaw mafia clique movin up another notch
And you bast stops squaws get mopped and dropped
All your fake-ass 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 nothin' 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 Prodigy in a choke hold
Totin smoke, Outlawz we ain't no joke
Thug Life, cowards 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
HAHA I hit em up
Outro: 2Pac & Prince Ital Joe
Empty clips, set trip
You know what time it is
Westside, Outlaw, Thug Life till we die
California love, california thug
You know what time it is
Bad Boy Killa
Mobb Deep Killa
Chino XL Killa
Much love to Smiff-N-Wessun, Freddie Foxxx, Bunchy The Fat Bastard, Naughty By Nature and all the real thugs out there
(Who fi broke-broke an who fi rich-rich)
Keep it comin'!
(Outlaw Immortal will never switch)
Westsiiiide!
You know what time it is
(Police informa, di bwoy dem a snitch)
All my real homeboyz in Jerzey
(Live the thug life and get buried ina di ditch)
Get up!
(New York uno better respect 2PAC)
Outlaw!
(an di yute Big, dem proud to be black)
Thug Life! to die...
(Jealousy some of them act idiot)
Westsiiiide!
(Hangin' pondi corner an smoke nuff crack)
Outlaw!
Live it up or give it up, busta!
(2PAC a di artical an dats a fact)
Hahahaha, Yeah!
(so seh dis an so seh dat,)
You know what time it is
(New York uno betta respect 2PAC,)
Love bout you, hate about me
(if uno diss, u will gonna get a gunshot)
(take money) Gun talkin' automatic mins'
(Outlaw Immortal will come an attack)
(take money) eleven's, fo'teens
(radical posse,as we have thug life back)
Whatever!
(Jamaican posse, yes, we love 2PAC,)
You wanna see us? Have you punks wannabe's
(warrior black an di yute nuh smoke crack)
Bad Boy killers, we the realest, whatever!
(New York uno better respect 2PAC,)
We got, together, Outlawz!
(an di yute big, dem proud to be black)
Thugs to the realest, feel us
(Jealousy some of them act idiot)
All you suckas die
(Hangin' pondi corner an smoke nuff crack)
Slow, my fo'fo', go, bow-bow
(2PAC a di artical an dats a fact)
Kastro, Idi, close my foes
(so seh dis an so seh dat,)
Without love, no love, do ya
(respect to my bredren 2PAC)
(take money) You knew it!
(Respect to the hard to kill yute)
It came with it, we bought it, we court it, THUG LIFE!
(Now I don't give a damn about what everybody said)
Forever, together, we ride, we die, we high
(y'all understand?)
(if ya don't know somebody you ain't supposed to judge em)
FOREVER!
THUG LIFE!
(that yute big ya done)
OUTLAW RIDAHZ!
WESTSIIIIIDE!
M.O.B.! *echoes*
(take money) Yeah, I'ma do this track
West side!!
(take money) MOB, Bad Boy killers
(take money) Hahahaha, hey fat boy...
(take money)
Verse One: 2Pac
First off, touch your chick and the clique you claim
Westside when we ride, come equipped with game
You claim to be a player, but I bust your wife
We bust on Bad Boys, brothers touch for life
Plus Puffy trying to see me, weak hearts I rip
Biggie Smalls and Junior M.A.F.I.A. some mark-ass tricks
We keep on coming while we running for your jewels
Steady gunning, keep on busting at them fools
You know the rules
Little Ceaser, go ask your homie how I'll leave you
Cut your trick ass up, leave you in pieces, now be deceased
Lil Kim, don't play around with real G's
Quick to snatch your ugly hair off the streets
You Little weave! I'll let them suckas know it's on for life
Don't let the Westside ride the night haha
Bad Boy murdered on wax and killed
Mess with me and get your 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
Busta, I hit em' up...
Interlude: 2Pac
Yeah, straight out on the Bad Boy camp
You know how we do it
All my real homeboys in New York keep thuggin'
All the rest of you bustas die slow!
Verse Two: Fatal
Get out the way yo, Hussein Fatal
Biggie Smallz just got dropped
Little Moo, pass 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 ass in the paint
Puffy weaker than a block I run on you
And I'll smoke ya junior mafia in front of you
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
Busta, 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 suckers gettin
Killed with ya mouths open
Tryin to come up offa me, you in the clouds hoping
Smokin dope it's like a sherm high
Brothers think they learned to fly
But they burn little suckers, you deserve to die
Talkin bout you gettin money, but its funny to me
All you suckers living bummy, why you're messin' 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 trick 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
Little busta, 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
Big Momma, is you coked up, or doped up?
Get ya lil Junior whopper clique smoked up, Please tell me
Is you STUPID?!?! I take money, crash and mash through Brooklyn
With my clique lootin, shootin and pollutin ya block
With 15 shots cocked Glock to your knot
Outlaw mafia clique movin up another notch
And you bast stops squaws get mopped and dropped
All your fake-ass 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 nothin' 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 Prodigy in a choke hold
Totin smoke, Outlawz we ain't no joke
Thug Life, cowards 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
HAHA I hit em up
Outro: 2Pac & Prince Ital Joe
Empty clips, set trip
You know what time it is
Westside, Outlaw, Thug Life till we die
California love, california thug
You know what time it is
Bad Boy Killa
Mobb Deep Killa
Chino XL Killa
Much love to Smiff-N-Wessun, Freddie Foxxx, Bunchy The Fat Bastard, Naughty By Nature and all the real thugs out there
(Who fi broke-broke an who fi rich-rich)
Keep it comin'!
(Outlaw Immortal will never switch)
Westsiiiide!
You know what time it is
(Police informa, di bwoy dem a snitch)
All my real homeboyz in Jerzey
(Live the thug life and get buried ina di ditch)
Get up!
(New York uno better respect 2PAC)
Outlaw!
(an di yute Big, dem proud to be black)
Thug Life! to die...
(Jealousy some of them act idiot)
Westsiiiide!
(Hangin' pondi corner an smoke nuff crack)
Outlaw!
Live it up or give it up, busta!
(2PAC a di artical an dats a fact)
Hahahaha, Yeah!
(so seh dis an so seh dat,)
You know what time it is
(New York uno betta respect 2PAC,)
Love bout you, hate about me
(if uno diss, u will gonna get a gunshot)
(take money) Gun talkin' automatic mins'
(Outlaw Immortal will come an attack)
(take money) eleven's, fo'teens
(radical posse,as we have thug life back)
Whatever!
(Jamaican posse, yes, we love 2PAC,)
You wanna see us? Have you punks wannabe's
(warrior black an di yute nuh smoke crack)
Bad Boy killers, we the realest, whatever!
(New York uno better respect 2PAC,)
We got, together, Outlawz!
(an di yute big, dem proud to be black)
Thugs to the realest, feel us
(Jealousy some of them act idiot)
All you suckas die
(Hangin' pondi corner an smoke nuff crack)
Slow, my fo'fo', go, bow-bow
(2PAC a di artical an dats a fact)
Kastro, Idi, close my foes
(so seh dis an so seh dat,)
Without love, no love, do ya
(respect to my bredren 2PAC)
(take money) You knew it!
(Respect to the hard to kill yute)
It came with it, we bought it, we court it, THUG LIFE!
(Now I don't give a damn about what everybody said)
Forever, together, we ride, we die, we high
(y'all understand?)
(if ya don't know somebody you ain't supposed to judge em)
FOREVER!
THUG LIFE!
(that yute big ya done)
OUTLAW RIDAHZ!
WESTSIIIIIDE!
M.O.B.! *echoes*
Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings
Live It Up Lyrics as written by Tupac Amaru Shakur
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Lyrics powered by LyricFind
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Fast Car
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