B.B.P. (Business Before Pleasure)

[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