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Тексты песен на английском, аккорды, табулатуры, гитара, Texts of songs, the song text, chords, notes » H » Hell Razah
B.B.P. (Business Before Pleasure) - текст песни



B.B.P. (Business Before Pleasure)


(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



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