Boogie Down Productions — Ruff Ruff

[Intro: KRS-One + Freddie Foxxx] Tah! Think you dope? Want this title, then come step up, or step off! Ayo, check this out, all jokes aside; let's get busy Word! Blastmaster KRS-One in the house Hah! everybody for some reason Wanna be a gangsta (Pump!)—you don't know nothin' (Pump!) About bein' no gangsta (Pump! Pump!) Word up, ayo, check this out This is Freddie F-O-X-X-X And guess what's next? [Chorus: KRS-One] Every posse wan fi chat, they wan fi chat, they wan fi chat Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dem is wack Every posse wan fi chat, they wan fi chat, they wan fi chat Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dem is wack Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dem is wack They jump pon the mic, an' wan fi do it like dat [Verse 1: KRS-One + Freddie Foxxx + KRS-One & Freddie Foxxx] But, ah! Ah, this a KRS ménage à trois When me open up to work, I put a cape on me back Then me fly all around the MC world KRS, the Article is not to be fucked with Fucked with, tempered with, or tampered with Don't give a fuck if you wanna riff, but when you Say Kris—already derivative of Kris My eyebrows lift and that ass I get with (Huh!) As a matter of fact, I attack, hijack Set back, your career, like a quarterback That broke his back, my tongue is like a bat Your eye'll get black, you'll need an icepack (Ruff!) I'm all that, come with your whole pack You'll be prayin to the god of Isaac So Freddie Foxxx, it's time to get tough (Uh huh?) Just get on the mic and get ruff! Ruff! [Verse 2: Freddie Foxxx + KRS-One + KRS-One & Freddie Foxxx] Listen as I flex, 'cause I'm about to rip up shop It's the return of the hip-hop master, Freddie the Foxxx (Bo!) Rappers that see me don't even speak, just walk 'Cause I'm the maddest nigga in New York (Ah!) I see a rapper in the crowd that I don't like I wanna fight, so when I drop the mic I'mma jump off the stage, bum-rush ya crowd of wimps (Suckers) that wanna be pimps I heard it said that a pimp'll sell his ass If his ho won't, but Freddie Foxxx don't Cover your chest G, you better wear a bulletproof vest, see 'Cause I'm about to leave this place a motherfuckin' mess Open hearts on the floor as I explore Rappers that wanted to be more than number four Number one's a hard spot; either you fight Or get shot, so this is what I got (Pump!) Three TEC-9s, my uzi, ten grenades, my razor blades And I aim to get paid! So who wanna step to this? Don't come soft 'Cause I'mma straight up knock niggas off (Pump! Pump!) And when the cops come to get me I'mma take a dead body, and bout ten cops with me I'm sick and tired of hearin' rappers talk smack About who's nice, and who's wack—motherfuck that They know my style, and my rep, every stage That I stepped on—I was the rapper they slept on But y'all rappers keep sleepin—'cause when I plant Bombs in your house, I'mma wake you up and punch you In your motherfuckin mouth, knock your wife out Take your sons to safety, 'cause they're just kids And I wanna raise 'em to face me And when they get a little bigger I'mma mop them little niggas, and put their fingerprints On the trigger—double homicide, call the vice Another rapper and his family with no life Yeah, you're Mr. Tough and you're full of stuffin' And Freddie Foxxx caught you bluffin' I got you in my torture chamber and you scream Oh, God damn, it's like Silence of the Lamb But I don't mangle 'em and eat 'em I take emcees to the war zone, and there I defeat 'em It gets much worse, with every verse As the F-R-E-D-D-I-E F-O-X-X-X hurts! Punishes, stomps, smashes Crushes, maims, you suckers know my name! Ayo, Kris! I'm rhymin' long enough (Say what?) Get on the mic and get ruff! Ruff! [Verse 3: KRS-One + Freddie Foxxx + KRS-One & Freddie Foxxx] This is the year that I go all out (Why?) Edutainment's what I'm all about (And) I don't eat franks with the sauerkraut ('Cause) Because I don't eat pork from the tail to the snout (Kick it) (well kick it) Get on down, to the hip-hip-hop Before I start, peace to Scott La Rock! (Word) Now let me drop the style that has action 'Cause many emcees don't believe they're rappin' They're lost, crazy mixed-up in their identity This is not, what hip-hop is meant to be (Word up) I come unique, I can't be beat, hardcore street For the kids, with a hundred-and-fifty on their feet (kick it) I don't compete, I defeat and delete ya Then critique ya, all emcees retreat, here comes the teacher! Chewin' suckers like Smuckers Hittin' on, sittin' on, shittin' on, flippin' on motherfuckers Yeah, I'm like the movie Aliens I hide inside your right-hand man, when you think you got me Bam! My head comes out your chest A mutilated mess of nastiness Chunks of bloody flesh, yes, KRS on the slaughter Specialize in instant-rhyme style, you simply add water Evian, or Poland Spring, then Ring-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding-ding Back in the days, I wrote South Bronx The Juice Crew got stomped, lick two shot Pump! Pump! Really it was Magic's fault Always wanna diss somebody, he got put to a halt It's wack, when a sucker DJ rattles on Soupin' up emcees to battle on song That's wrong, but in any event I drop the classic in 1992 the original It ain't plastic, everybody know, BDP Is fantastic, burn like acid Credit card plastic, stretch like elastic Love and respect is the tactic [Outro: KRS-One + Freddie Foxxx] Bam! In your motherfuckin' face KRS in the place I never liked listening to bitches and hoes anyway (Fi-yah!!) Well you know I like hoes, 'cause I'm a mack But I don't like the wack tracks, you know what I'm sayin'? And for all your suckers out there That underestimate the militant mack, get the bozack You know what I mean? (Word) Word! You know why? [Chorus: KRS-One] Every posse wan fi chat, they wan fi chat, they wan fi chat Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dem is wack Every posse wan fi chat, ya know dem is wack Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dem is wack [Outro: KRS-One + Freddie Foxxx] Yes Fresh for 1992, you suckers Motherfuckers! Brrrrrrt!