Sean Combs

For other uses, including Richard 'Diddy' Dearlove, see Diddy (disambiguation).

Sean Combs

Sean John Combs (born November 4, 1969) is an American record producer, mogul and rapper.

As of October 2006, his nickname and recording name is Diddy (adopted in August 2005); previously, he had been known as Puff Daddy and later as P. Diddy (Puff or Puffy being often used as nicknames, but never as recording names). He is still called P. Diddy in New Zealand and the UK, the latter after a legal battle with another artist, Richard "Diddy" Dearlove.

Combs presides over a media empire that includes the record label Bad Boy Records, the clothing lines Sean John and Sean by Sean Combs, a movie production company, and two restaurants. He has taken the roles of recording executive, performer, producer of MTV's "Making the Band," writer, arranger, clothing designer, and Broadway actor. Diddy is the richest hip-hop entertainer as of 2007, having a net worth estimate of US $346 Million.

Early years

2PAC LYRICS

"Hit 'Em Up"

[Tupac]

I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends Thats why 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 around 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

[Chorus]

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 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 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

[Chorus]

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 penitentiary 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 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 bitch 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N E W 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 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 notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake ass east coast props Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker So fill the Alize 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-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 bopping 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 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 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 triple 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.

Establishing Bad Boy

2PAC LYRICS

"Hit 'Em Up"

[Tupac]

I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends Thats why 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 around 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

[Chorus]

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 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 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

[Chorus]

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 penitentiary 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 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 bitch 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N E W 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 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 notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake ass east coast props Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker So fill the Alize 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-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 bopping 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 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 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 triple 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.

Performing career

2PAC LYRICS

"Hit 'Em Up"

[Tupac]

I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends Thats why 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 around 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

[Chorus]

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 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 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

[Chorus]

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 penitentiary 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 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 bitch 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N E W 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 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 notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake ass east coast props Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker So fill the Alize 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-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 bopping 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 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 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 triple 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.

Controversy

2PAC LYRICS

"Hit 'Em Up"

[Tupac]

I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends Thats why 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 around 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

[Chorus]

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 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 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

[Chorus]

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 penitentiary 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 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 bitch 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N E W 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 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 notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake ass east coast props Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker So fill the Alize 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-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 bopping 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 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 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 triple 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.

Puff Daddy in the 2000s

2PAC LYRICS

"Hit 'Em Up"

[Tupac]

I ain't got no mutha fuckin friends Thats why 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 around 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

[Chorus]

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 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 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

[Chorus]

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 penitentiary 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 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 bitch 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-fucka I'll Hit 'Em Up

I'm from N E W 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 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 notch And your Pop stars popped and get dropped and mopped And all your fake ass east coast props Brainstormed and locked

You'se a beat biter Pac style taker I'll tell you to face, you ain't nothing shit but a faker So fill the Alize 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-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 bopping 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 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 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 triple 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.

Other work

Combs has opened his own clothing range named 'Sean John'. Combs is one of the wealthiest people in the American entertainment industry. In 2002, he was featured on Fortune magazine's "40 Richest People Under 40" list and was placed number one in the list of the top ten richest people in hip-hop. He has donated undisclosed amounts to the Patricia Kirby Foundation, an organization that battles teenage bulimia and other eating disorders.

In addition to his work as a performer and producer, Combs entered the fashion industry. His clothing line, Sean John, has been nominated for the Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA) Award for Menswear Designer of the Year every year since 2000. Sean John received criticism, however, for using fur in his designs. Controversy also followed when it was discovered that factories producing the clothing in Honduras were violating Honduran labor law. Charles Kernaghan of the National Labor Committee, who first exposed the factory, is quoted in the New York Times as saying, "Sean Combs obviously has a lot of clout, he can literally do a lot overnight to help these workers." He did and conditions at the factory improved dramatically. The case is often cited as an example of how concerned celebrities can contribute to ending sweatshop abuses.

In 2006 mayor Richard M. Daley awarded Combs with a pair of cufflinks to commemorate the inauguration of an annual October 13 "Diddy Day" in the city of Chicago. Combs received the honor as reward for certain "charitable work" at the Chicago City Hall. This has been seen by some to be an election-month stunt by the mayor.

Combs also owns two upscale restaurants called "Justin's" (named after his son) with locations in New York and in Atlanta. He is the designer of the green Dallas Mavericks alternate jersey.

He appeared as a drug dealer in Made, and he played the role of Walter Lee Younger in the critically acclaimed 2004 Broadway revival of A Raisin in the Sun. Combs says he loved appearing in the show and being given the opportunity to perform at the theater. He attracted huge crowds for his performance in the New York production, received mixed reviews, and admits he is desperate to pursue an acting career. He also starred with Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thornton in the film Monster's Ball.

He also starred in Carlito's Way: Rise to Power.

Personal life

On Thursday December 21, 2006, Combs' girlfriend, Kim Porter, who also has a son with Al B Sure, delivered twin girls, one at 7:56 am weighing 5lbs and the other at 7:58am weighing 5lbs 4oz. Their names are D'Lila Star and Jessie James Combs. Diddy announced the birth on his myspace. The couple have a son, Christian, 9. Sean also has another son, Justin, 13, from his previous relationship with stylist Misa Hylton-Brim.

Combs is a football fan. He arranged time to meet the Manchester United F.C. team in Copenhagen prior to MTV European Music Awards. Combs favorite club is Arsenal F.C.: "I'm a loyal guy. There's a couple of other football teams tried to recruit me but I'm staying true to Arsenal. Arsenal fans have inducted me as an honorary official Arsenal member."

Combs was given the key to Chicago on October 13, 2006.

Discography

Further information: [[:Diddy discography]]

Albums

• No Way Out (Puff Daddy & the Family) (1997) [7x RIAA Certified Platinum][10 Million Worldwide]
• Forever (as Puff Daddy) (1999) 1x Platinum [RIAA Certified Platinum]
• The Saga Continues... (P. Diddy & the Bad Boy Family) (2001) 1x Platinum [RIAA Certified Platinum]
• We Invented The Remix Vol. 1 (as P. Diddy) (2002) 1x Platinum [RIAA Certified Platinum]
• Press Play (as Diddy) (2006) Platinum [RIAA Certified Gold]
• Press Play Remix Album (as Diddy) (2007)
• We Invented The Remix Vol. 2 (as Diddy) (2008)

Grammy awards

• Career Wins: 3
• Career Nominations: 9

Diddy's Grammy History
Year	Category	Genre	Song	Result
1998	Best New Artist	General	N/A	Nominated
1998	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Can't Nobody Hold Me Down"	Nominated
1998	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Mo Money Mo Problems"	Nominated
1998	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"I'll Be Missing You"	Won
1998	Best Rap Album	Rap	No Way Out	Won
2000	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Satisfy You"	Nominated
2002	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Bad Boy For Life"	Nominated
2003	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Pass the Courvoisier (Part 2)"	Nominated
2004	Best Rap Performance By a Duo or Group	Rap	"Shake Ya Tailfeather"	Won

External links

• Diddy Official website
• Bad Boy Online, Combs' company's site
• Diddy Fansite website
• Press Play review on AbsolutePunk.net
• MTV: Diddy
• Template:MySpace
• Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs at IMDb
• YouTube page
• Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs biography
• Sean 'P Diddy' Combs Biography by Fresh Thinking Business
• Diddy and Kanye West's Birthday Party Movie 2006
• Sean Combs In The News Mainly Business Related Stories
• Court TV coverage of Sean Combs weapons and bribery charges