How High

[Intro] Takin' it from the top? Top Tippy? Come on, my people Sing it, daddy Hey, yeah 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 [Verse 1: Method Man] Excuse me as I kiss the sky Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye Who the fuck 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 blaow It be goin' down, diggy diggy down, diggy down, down [Verse 2: Redman] 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 (Fucking with us) Is a straight suicide [Verse 3: Method Man] Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four Three, two, murder one lyric at your door Tical bring it to that ass raw Breakin' all the rules like glass jaws Nigga, you got to get mines to get yours Fucker, 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 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 [Verse 4: Redman] I be's 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 Ayo, my man (Tical), hear me now (Huh) 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 in hip-hop Fuck the Billboard, I'm 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 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 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 [Verse 5: Method Man] '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 fuckin' own Check it, I brings havoc with my hectic Bring the Pain lyrics screaming for the antiseptic Moving on your left kid, and I'm Method Out my fucking dome piece, plus I got no love for the beast Hailing from the big East Coast, where niggas pack toast Home of the drug kingpin and cut throats [Verse 6: Redman] Hey boy, you the rude boy on the block You try to stop the bum rush, you will get popped [Verse 7: Method Man] 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 [Verse 8: Redman] Look up in the, I got the verbs, nouns and Glocks in ya Enter the center, 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 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 canals of Panama just off stamina Styles not to be fucked with or played with Fuck them pretty hoes, I love those Section 8 bit-ches Hitting snitches, twisting wigs with Fat radical mathematical type scriptures I dig up in your planets like Diga-boo Scared you, blew you to smithereens Fuck the Marines, I got machines That like to spit and read MAD magazines I fly more heads than Continental Wreck ya five times like U.S. Air off an instrumental Look, I'm not a halfway 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 For the nine nickel [Outro] Yo, Red, yo, Red (Punk ass pussy ass) You ain't got the shade no more, man, that's it, man (Word up, man) We out, it's over Fake ass niggas