Takin' it from the top?
(Hell yeah, we taking it from the top)
Tippy?
All my people (sing it, daddy)
Hey, uh
Excuse me as I kiss the sky
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful a rye
Who the fuck wanna die for their culture
Stalk the dead body like a vulture
Ticallion, hmmm
Blacker than your blackest stallion
Hit your housing projects
I represent yo' Shaolin my nigga
Hell yes, apocalypse now, the gun blaow
It be goin' 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 then that Toucan Sam bitch
Plus, the Bombazee got me wide...
(Fuckin' with us) is a straight suicide
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4
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 mine 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, that 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
I's be 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
Yo' shit broke down, light your flair
This the dark side tears 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 monkey ass
Ayo my man (Tical) hear me now
Bitches used to play me, now they can't forget me now
Forget me not, I rock the spot, check Glock
Empty off a lickin' off in hip-hop
Fuck 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 Spock smokin' buddah on the 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
'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
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, eff 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 Rico-chet Rabbit
I brings havoc with an A-K matic
Rollin' blunts' an all-day habit
I get it on like Smif 'n' Wess'; who clique's the best?
Punks take a sip and test, who split 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 smitha-reens
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 nickle
Yo Red, yo Red
Punk ass, pussy ass
We ain't gotta show you no more, man
We out
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