(feat. 7th Ambassador, Bambue)

[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 %#@!, eases our mind

In a everyday struggle, in the jungle
Hash was a hustle and ^!$$%s be bad to touch you
If you don't have the muscle in this modern day, cash or trouble

You heard Biggie's $$# 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 %#@! spray
Like somethin' they made for dodgin'
It's all big rims, you mean to floss it


[Chorus x2.5: Hell Razah (Bambue)]
(*##$es come, (*##$es go

Never trust a ho
Business Before Pleasure, cuz they out to get ya dough


(^!$$%s come, ^!$$%s go, $#&@ all ya dough
If I'm a (*##$ 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 (*##$es 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
^!$$%s front, you get uzzi slugs, you be a who-he-was
We ain't never really give a $#&@, 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 !#!&s

[Chorus x3]


[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 !@$(s 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 ^!$$%s 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 bull%#@!, that I'm bout to throw up