Method Man / Redman - How High Lyrics

Takin' it from the top? (Top)
Tippy? (tippy)
Come on, my people
Sing it, daddy
Hey (ooh-wee)
We rock
Ha (ah), ha ha
Ha ha (aha)
Taking my mind where it's never gone before
And so like a mushroom in cow shit
And I'm taking it just to get the ultimate high, baby
The ultimate high, ohh

Excuse me as I kiss the sky
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full a rye
Who the f*ck wanna die for their culture?
Stalk the dead body like a vulture, Ticalion, hmm
Blacker than your blackest stallion
Hit your housing projects
I represent yo' Shaolin, my nigga
Now yes, Apocalypse now, the gun pow
It be going down, diggy diggy down, diggy down down

While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse
When I raise my trigger finger all y'all niggas hit the deck
'Cause ain't no need for that, hustlers and hardcore
Raw to the floor, raw like Reservoir Dogs
The Green-Eyed Bandit can't stand it
With more fruitier loops than that Toucan Sam bitch
Plus the Bombazee got me wide
F*cking with us
Is a straight suicide

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four
Three, two, murder one lyric at your door
Tical bring it to that ass raw
Breaking all the rules like glass jaws
Nigga, you got to get mines to get yours
F*cka, 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, I stays open like an all night store (yeah, yeah, ah)
For real I keeps it ill like a piece of blue steel
Pointed at your temple with the intent to kill
And end your existence, M-E-T
Ain't no use for resistance, H-O-D

I bees the ultimate rush to any nigga on dust
The Egyptian Musk used to have me pull mad sluts
I shift like a clutch with the Ruck
Examine my nuts, I don't stop 'til I get enough
Your shit broke down, light your flare
Since the dark side tears you into Hollywood Squares
Six million ways to die, so I chose
Made it six million and one with your eyes closed
The blindfold cold, so you can feel the wrath
And shatter the glass and second half on your funky ass
And, yo, my man (Tical) hit me now
Bitches used to play me now they can't forget me now
They get me mad, I rock the spot, check Glock
Empty off a licking off a hip-hop
F*ck the Billboard, I'm a bullet on my block
How you dope when you paid for your Billboard spot?

Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane
It's the Funk Doctor Spot smoking buddha on a train
How high? So high that I can kiss the sky
How sick? So sick that you can suck my dick (uh)
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

'Til my man Raider Ruckus come home
It ain't really on 'til 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 our f*cking own
Check it, I wreaks havoc with my hectic
Bring the Pain lyrics, screaming for the antiseptic
Moving on your left, kid, and I'm Method
Out my f*cking dome piece, plus I got no love for the beast
Hailing from the big East Coast, where niggas pack toast
Home of the drug kingpins and cut throats

Hey boy, you the rude boy on the block
You try to stop the bum rush, you will get popped

As I run a mile with a racist
My style was born in the pissy staircases
Dig it, F a rap critic
He talk about it while I live it
If Red got the blunt, I'm the second one to hit it

Look up in the, I got the verbs, nouns and Glocks in ya
Enter the center, lyrics bang like Ricochet Rabbit
I brings havoc with an AK 'matic, rolling blunts an all day habit
I get it on like Smith & Wes', who clique's the best?
Punks take a sip and test, who splits your vest?
The funk phenomenon, I'm bombing you like Lebanon (blow canal)
Blow canals of Panama just off stamina
Style's not to be f*cked with or played with
F*ck them pretty hoes, I love those Section 8 Bitches
Hitting switches, twisting wigs with
Fat radical mathematical type scriptures
I dig up in your planets like Diga', boo
Scared you, blew you to smithereens
F*ck the Marines, I got machines
That like to spit and read Mad Magazine
I fly more heads than Continental
Wreck ya five times like U.S. 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 off proper
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 (yo, Red)
For the nine nickel

Yo, Red (bitch-ass), yo, Red
Punk-ass, pussy-ass
You ain't got the say no more, man
That's it, man (word up, man)
We out, it's over
Silly-ass niggas