* originally appeared on "the show" soundtrack
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 pocet full a rye
Who the f** 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 n***a
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 n***az 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 b**h
Plus, the bombazee got me wild
(f**in 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 a** raw
Breakin all the rules like gla** jaws
n***a, you got to get mine to get yours
f**a, 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 k**
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 n***a on dust
The egyptian musk use to have me pull mad s*uts
I shift like a clutch with the ruck
Examine my nuts, i dont stop till i get enough
Your sh** 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 gla** and second half on your monkey a**
And yo my man (tical) hit me now
b**hes 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** 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 s** 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 s** 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**in 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**in dome piece
Plus i got no love for the beast
Hailin from the big east coast
Where n***az 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 can*ls of panama
Just off stamina
Styles not to be f**ed with, or played with
f** 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** 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 a** p**y a**
[you ain't gotta say no more man, that's it]
Word up tical, we out
[it's over]