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Intro: Method Man:
*All my people...!*
Redman
It's Funk Doc
Where da weed at, b*tch?!
I speed back wist, down to one-way from cops
See thas' s**t?! Believe thas' s**t!
Slaughter straight to camcorder, I'm too hot for t.v.
Backdraw water, my windpipes attached to
Project-ballers
You yell: "Turn the heat down!"
My voice, D.V.D. round-sound, some herb round town
And chances of ya'll leavin', round now
Wait later, will make Funk page paper
Date r*per wit' Juvenile 8th Graders
Hit the High School at 187 Caesar
When I bust ya'll need to back 4 acres
Doc ya'll and that's my man Jabberjaw
The s**tlist ready, who next to scratch off?
I'm from the underground, my soundlib
Platform shoes to girls, 400 pounds!
Chorus: Meth & Red
GET UP, STAND UP, BACK UP, PUSH 'EM
JUMP UP, ACT UP TO MAKE YOU FEEL IT!
Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
Yo' BLACKOUT, SHOOT OUT, SMOKED OUT
MOVE OUT, EVEN KNOCK THE TOOTH OUT, TO MAKE YA'LL FEEL
IT!
Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
Method Man:
Now I'm the streettalkin', dogwalkin'
Approach me with extreme caution, OH NOW YOU FORCIN'?
My hand that rock yo' cradle often
I'm hot-scorchin', but stone cold like Steve Austin
If you smell what Tical cookin', ain't try to see
central bookin'
So til ya gon' stop lookin', now what you did last
summer?
So I started hookin', you past shookin'
Over open can I ass-whoopin'?
Ain't no tomorrows in the Method's Little Shop Of
Horrors
Go ask your father who the father from the Hill to
Harbor
You know tha saga, marijuana bustin' Goldschlaager
With deadly medley, ya'll ain't ready for Shakwon and
Reggie
Don't even bother, the radio for back-up
Alright then, ya man got slapped up extorted for his
icin'
Streetlife is triflin' *Body over here...!*
Col' make me pull a Tyson and bite a nigg*' ear
Precisin', slicin' jugulars the cut-crew
Ruggeder, Predator, Viking, etc.
People's champ, be takin' all competetors
Reachin' for the microphone, relax and light a bone
Straight from the Catacomb
The Children Of The Corn, that don't got a clue
Prepare for desert storm!
Chorus
I scored 1.1 on my SAT
And still push a whip with a right and left AC
Gorilla, Big Dog, if my name get called
I'm behind the brickwall with arsenic jaws
Spit poison, got a gun permit draw
Gundown at Sundown you keep score!
This training-course and ya'll ain't fit
On my crew-tombstone put 'We All Ain't s**t'
Meth
Yo', all you gonna be, wanna be
When will you learn? Wanna be Doc and Meth? Gotta wait
ya turn
I spit a .41 Revolver on New Year's Eve
With the mic in my hand I mutilate m.c.'s
The most slept on since Rip Van Wink
My s**t stink with every element from A to Zinc
So what you think? I'ma blackout on just one drink?
You must be crazy! A little off the wall maybe
Go get a shrink...
Chorus
