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lirik lagu how high (remix) – method man

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 n-gg-

h-ll 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-gg-z 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-tch

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 -ss raw

breakin all the rules like gl-ss jaws

n-gg-, you got to get mine 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, that stays open like an all nite store

for real, i keeps it i’ll 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 n-gg- on dust

the egyptian musk use to have me pull mad sl-ts

i shift like a clutch with the ruck

examine my nuts, i don’t stop till i get enough

your sh-t 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 gl-ss and second half on your monkey -ss

and yo my man (tical) hit me now

b-tches use to play me now they can’t 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 d-ck

look up in the sky it’s a bird it’s a plane

recognize, johnny blaze, ain’t a d-mn thing changed

how high? so high that i can kiss the sky

how sick? so sick that you can suck my d-ck

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 n-gg-z 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 b-m 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 c-n-ls 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 -ss p-ssy -ss

[you ain’t gotta say no more man, that’s it]

word up tical, we out

[it’s over]

- method man

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