Текст песни Ruff Ruff (Boogie Down Productions) с переводом

* voice echoing*

Think you dope? Want this title?

Then you better come step up or step OFF!

Yo 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

You don’t know NUTTIN about bein no GANGSTA

Worrrrrrrd up! Aiyyo 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 ju knows dem is wack

Every posse wan fi chat, they wan fi chat, they wan fi chat

Every posse wan fi chat, but ju knows dem is wack

Every posse wan fi chat, but ju knows dem is wack

They jump pon the mic, an' wan fi do it like dat

But ahh, now this a KRS, me nah take slack

When me open up to work, I put a cape on me back

Then me, FLY ALL AROUND THE EMCEE WORLD

KRS, the Artical, is not to be

Fucked with,? 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 (RRRRRUFF!)

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

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 (hah!)

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, bumrush your crowd to 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 (BO!)

Three Tec-9's, 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 (POM! POM!)

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 whack, 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 bigga

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 stuff and

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 Lambs_

But I don’t mangle em and eat em

I take MC’s 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!

Aiyyo 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

(well kick it) Get on down, to the hip hip hop

Before I start, peace to Scott LaRock! (word)

Now let me drop the style that has action

Cause many MC’s 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 MC’s retreat, HERE COMES THE T’CHA

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 nastyness

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

POM! POM! Really it was Magic’s fault

Always wanna diss somebody, he got put to a halt

It’s wack, when a sucker DJ babbles on

Soupin up MC’s 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, youknowhatI’msayin?

And for all your suckers out there

That underestimate the militant mack, get the BO-ZACK

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 dey is wack

Every posse wan fi chat, they wan fi chat, you know dem a wack

Every posse wan fi chat, but ya knows dey is wack

Yes. fresh. for nineteen-ninety-two you suckers * echoes *

Motherfuckers! Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! * echoes to fade *