How High

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 fk 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 nigg*
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 hit the decks!
Cause aint no need for that, hustlers and hardc*re
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
(fkin with us) is just 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 as* raw
Breakin all the rules like glass jaws
nigg*, you got to get mine to get yours
, 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 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 nigg* on dust
The Egyptian Musk use to have me pull mad gals
I shift like a clutch with the Ruck
Examine my nuts, I dont stop till I get enough
Your s**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 glass and second half on your monkey ass
And yo my man (Tical) hit me now
girls use to play me now they cant forget me now
Forget me not, I rock the spot, check glock
Empty off a l*ckin off a hip hop
fk 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 our fkin own
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 fkin dome piece
Plus I got no love for the beast
Hailin from the big East Coast
Where 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
Who clicks the best
Punks take a sip and test
Who split your vest
The funk phenomenon
I'm bombin you like Lebanon
Blow canals of Panama
Just off stamina
Styles not to be fked with, or played with
fk 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
fk 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 as* p*ssy ass
You ain't gotta say no more man, that's it
Word up Tical, We Out
IT'S OVER