Method Man - How High lyrics

* 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]