Lyrics Ruff Ruff - Boogie Down Productions, Freddie Foxxx

Ruff Ruff

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?
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
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!
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!
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
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?
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
Yes
Fresh for 1992, you suckers
Motherfuckers!
Brrrrrrt!