[Intro: Hell Razah (Bambue) {7th Ambassador}]
B.B.P., in the Bronx, B.B.P. (Yo, uh) {what, what}
[7th Ambassador]
My commitee of six`ll sick in the flip
Switch in the nines, and pull out knives
Hit the five boroughs at one time
We really never like being confined
That`s why we speak about trees in our rhyme
That type of shit, eases our mind
In a everyday struggle, in the jungle
Hash was a hustle and niggas be bad to touch you
If you don`t have the muscle in this modern day, cash or trouble
You heard Biggie`s ass rebuttal, the Mo the Money, the Mo the Problems
More ways for me to solve `em, more gats keep revolvin`
So what you talkin`?, you ain`t doin` nothin` but offerin`
My little shorties a coffin, claimin` you a master of a world you lost in
Down the mean streets, BX to Compton
Who you crossin`, dunn get caught walkin`
On the wrong side of the margin, when shit spray
Like somethin` they made for dodgin`
It`s all big rims, you mean to floss it
[Chorus 2.5X: Hell Razah (Bambue)]
Bitches come, bitches go
Never trust a ho
Business Before Pleasure, cuz they out to get ya dough
(Niggas come, niggas go, fuck all ya dough
If I`m a bitch and I`m a ho
Then I`mma go and get my own)
[Hell Razah]
On the block, crack spot watch in front of the cops
He made careers outta corners for his Rolex watch
Up in clubs, straight lick-up, past bitches and sons
Every Sunday at the Tunnel takin` pictures wit thugs
Shorty lookin` in my face like she fallin` in love
Yea, I eat meat, close it `for the chew in the cut
Like I`m at a drive a wagon, like you flyin` his rug
Up in cabin, smoke trees in the jacuzzi tub, what
Niggas front, you get uzzi slugs, you be a who-he-was
We ain`t never really give a fuck, son, who he was
+Business Before Pleasure+ forever
I got tracks road for all winters, I`m clever
I`m not ya everyday stereotype
I`m more like one of those Hebrew-Israelites, that rock mics
Boogie in jails, startin` up riots and fights
First convict to come home, we be thinkin` a like
Sex for ice, nowadays love got a price
I`m used to have more than one wife, singin` me paradise
I`m pretty shinin` tight, home Friday night
Burn til she hitchhike, we Dick Van Dykes
[Chorus 3X]
[Bambue]
Aiyo, I`m sick of these fake thugs
Sick of these fake grimeys sellin` drugs
I`m sick of these fake thugs bustin` slugs
Sick of them fake bastards that be after my dough
I`m sick of the +Fake MC`s+ who claim they mastered the flow
Sick of the fake producers, sick of the fake fiends who claim they boosters
Sick of the fake niggas who didn`t choose us
Sick of the fake labels, sick of the A&R`s
Sick of the fake rappers that they be claimin` stars
Sick of the fake beats, sick of these fake talkers claimin` peace
Sick of the West Coast, sick of the East
Sick of the fat fatties, takin` so long to blow up
So sick of this bullshit, that I`m bout to throw up
