Method Man - How High (Part 2) lyrics

Taking it from the top? Tippy? Tippy? How High? The Ultimate High [Method Man] Scuse me as I kiss the sky Sing a song of six pence, a pocet full a rye Who the f** want to die for their culture Stalk the dead body like a vulture Tical get, hmm 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 [Redman] While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse When I raise my trigga finga all why'all n***az hit the decks! Cause ain't 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 [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 don't 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 night 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 existence, M-E-T Ain't no use for resistance, H-O-D [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 don't 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 can't forget me now Forget me not, I rock the spot, check glock Empty off a licking off a hip hop f** the billboard, I'm 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 smoking 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 [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, I'm the second one to hit it [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 Hitting switches, Twisting 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)