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[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
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