Thankful

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 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