(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 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 x2.5: 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 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 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