Method Man Lyrics
How High Lyrics
Intro:
Takin it from the top?
Tippy? Tippy?
How
High?....
The Ultimate High....
Verse One: Method Man
Scuse me as I kiss the sky
Sing a song of six pence, a pocket
full a rye
Who the f*ck wanna die for their culture
Stalk the
dead body like a vulture
Tical get, HMMM
Blacker than your
blackest stallion
Hit your house'n projects
I represent the
Shaolin my nigga
Hell yes, Apocalypse now, the gun blow
It be
goin down, diggy diggy down diggy down down
Verse Two: Redman
While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse
When I
raise my trigga finga all yall niggaz hit the decks!
Cause aint no need
for that, hustlers and hardcores
Raw to the floor raw like Reservoir
Dogs
The Green-Eyed Bandit can't stand it
With more Fruitier
Loops then that Toucan Sam Bitch
Plus, the Bombazee got me wild
(F*ckin with us) is a straight suicide
Verse Three:
Method Man
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
3 2 Murder 1 lyric at your door
Tical bring it to that ass raw
Breakin all the rules like glass
jaws
Nigga, you got to get mine to get yours
F*cka, we dont need
no rap tour
I'd rather kick the facts and catch you with the rap-ture
More than you bargained for
Tical, that stays open like an all
nite store
For real, I keeps it ill like a piece of blue steel
Pointed at your temple with the intent to kill
And end your
existance, M-E-T
Ain't no use for resistance, H-O-D
Verse Four: Redman
I bees the ultimate rush to any nigga
on dust
The Egyptian Musk use to have me pull mad sluts
I shift
like a clutch with the Ruck
Examine my nuts, I dont stop till I get
enough
Your shit broke down, light your flare
Since the darkside
tears you into hollywood squares
6 million ways to die, so I chose
Made it 6 million and 1 with your eyes closed
The blindfold,
cold, so you can feel the rap
And shatter the glass and second half on
your monkey ass
And yo my man (Tical) hit me now
Bitches use to
play me now they cant forget me now
Forget me not, I rock the spot,
check glock
Empty off a lickin off a hip hop
F*ck the billboard,
Im a bullet on my block
How you dope when you payed for your billboard
spot?
Chorus:
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a
plane
It's the funk doctor spock smokin buddha on a train
HOW
HIGH? So high that I can kiss the sky
HOW SICK? So sick that you can
suck my dick
Look up in the sky it's a bird it's a plane
Recognize, Johnny Blaze, ain't a damn thing changed
HOW HIGH? So
High that I can kiss the sky
HOW SICK? So Sick that you can suck my dick
Verse Five: Method Man
Til my man Raider Ruckus come
home
It ain't really on till the Ruckus get, home
Puff a meth
bone, now I'm off to the red zone
we don't need your dirt weed we got a
f*ckin O
Check it, I brings havoc with my hectic
Bring the Pain
lyrics screamin for the antiseptic
Movin on your left kid, and I'm
methted, out my f*ckin dome piece
Plus I got no love for the beast
Hailin from the big East Coast
Where niggaz pack toast
Home of the drug kingpins and cut throats
[Hey boy, you's the
rude boy on the block
You try and stop the bum rush you will get popped]
As I run around with a racist
My style was born in the 50 stair
cases
Dig it, eff a rap critic
He talk about it while I live it
If Red got the blunt, Im the second one to hit it
Verse
Six: Redman
Look up in the, I got the verbs, nouns and glocks in ya
Enter the centa, lyrics bang like rico-chet
Rabbit, I brings
havoc with an A-K matic
Rollin blunts an all day habit
I get it
on like Smif'n'Wes
Punks take a sip and test
Who split your vest
The funk phenomenon
I'm bombin you like Lebanon
Blow
canals of Panama
Just off stamina
Styles not to be f*cked with,
or played with
F*ck the pretty hoes, I love those Section A Bit-ches
Hittin switches, Twistin wigs with
Fat radical mathematical type
scriptures
I dig up in your planets like Diga,
Boo, scared you,
blew you to smithe-reens
F*ck the marines, I got machines
To
light the spliff, and read Mad magazine
I fly more heads than
Continental
Wreck ya 5 times like US AIR off an instrumental
Look I'm not a half way crook with bad looks
But I may murder
your case like your name was Cal Brooks
I breaks em up proppa
Ask Biggie Smalls 'Who Shot Ya'
Funk doctor, with the 12 Gauge
Mossberg
Look, I got the tools like Rickle
To make your mind
tickle
For the nine nickle
[Yo Red, yo Red!]
Punk ass
pussy ass
[You ain't gotta say no more man, that's it]
Word up
Tical, We Out
[IT'S OVER]