Ruff Ruff Songtext
von Boogie Down Productions

Ha, think you dope?
You want this title? Come step up
Step off!
Ayo, check this out, all jokes aside
Let′s get busy
Word, Blastmaster KRS-One in the house
Ha, everybody for some reason wanna be a gangsta
You don't know nothin′ about bein' a gangsta
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 you know, said they wack
Every posse wan' fi chat, they wan′ fi chat, they wan' fi chat
Every posse wan′ fi chat, but you know, said they wack
Every posse wan' fi chat, but you know, said they wack
Look upon the mic and wan' fi do it like that
But ah, ah, this a KRS, man, nah take slack
When me open up the window, put the cape on me back
And me fly all around the MC world


KRS the article is not to be fucked with
Templed with or tampered with
Don′t give a fuck if you wanna riff
But when you say Kris, a really derivative of Kris
My eyebrows lift and that ass′ll get ripped
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 ice pack
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 rough, rough
Listen as I flex 'cause I'm about to rip up shop
It′s the return of the hip-hop master, Freddie the Foxxx
Rappers that see me don′t even speak, just walk
'Cause I′m the maddest nigga in New York
I see a rapper in the crowd that I don't like
I wanna fight, so when I drop the mic
I′ma jump off the stage, bum rush your crowd of wimps
Suckers that wanna be pimps
I heard it said that a pimp'll sell his ass if his ho won′t
Well, 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
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'ma straight up knock niggas off
And when the cops come to get me
I′ma 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
You 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'ma wake you up and punch you in your motherfuckin′ mouth
Knock your wife out, take your sons to safety
'Cause they just kids and I wanna raise 'em to face me
And when they get a little bigger
I′ma mark them little niggas
And put their fingerprints on the trigger
Double homicide, call the wife
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, goddamn
It's like Silence of the Lambs
But I don′t mangle 'em and eat ′em
I take MCs to the war zone and there I defeat 'em
It gets much worse with every verse
As the F-R-E-A-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
Get on the mic and get rough, rough
This is the year that I go all out
Edutainment′s what I'm all about
And I don′t eat franks with sauerkraut
Because I don't eat pork from the tail to the snout
Get on down to the hip hip-hop
Before I stomp, peace to Scott La Rock
Now let me drop the style that has action
′Cause many MCs don't believe they′re rappin'
They lost, crazy, mixed up in their identity
This is not what hip-hop is meant to be
I come unique, I can't be beat
Hardcore street for the kids with a hundred and fifty on their feet
I don′t compete, I defeat the leech
And then critique ya, all MCs retreat, here comes the teacher
Chewin′ suckers like Smuckers
Hittin' or sittin′ or shittin' on, flippin′ on motherfuckers
Yeah, I'm like the movie Aliens
I hide inside your right-hand man
When you think ya got me, bam
My head comes out your chest
A mutilated mess of nastiness, chunks of bloody flesh
Yes, KRS on a slaughter
Specialize in instant rhyme style, you simply add water
Evian, a pull the spring and ring-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding
Back in the days, I rode South Bronx
The Juice Crew got stomped, licked two shots, pop, pop
Really it was Magic′s fault
Always wanted to diss somebody, he got put to a halt
It's wack when a sucker DJ battles on
Soakin' up MCs to battle on song, that′s wrong
But in any event, I dropped a classic
In 1992, the frigid, over they blasted
Everybody know BDP is fantastic
Burn like acid, credit card plastic
Check the scholastic, love and respect is the tactic
Bam in your motherfuckin′ face
KRS in the place
I never liked listenin' to bitches and hoes anyway
Well, you know I like hoes ′cause I'm a mack
But I don′t like no wack tracks, you know what I'm sayin′?
And for all you suckers out there that underestimate the militant mack
Get the bozack, you know what I mean?
Word, you know why?
Every posse wan' fi chat, they wan' fi chat, they wan′ fi chat
Every posse wan′ fi chat, but you know, said they wack
Every posse wan' fi chat, you know them a wack
Every posse wan′ fi chat, but you know, said they wack