Method Man How High Lyrics

(feat. Redman)


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 f___ 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____
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 n____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____
Plus, the Bombazee got me wild
(f___in 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 a__ raw
Breakin all the rules like glass jaws
n____, you got to get mine to get yours
f___a, 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 n____ on dust
The Egyptian Musk use to have me pull mad s___s
I shift like a clutch with the Ruck
Examine my nuts, I dont stop till I get enough
Your s___ 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 a__
And yo my man (Tical) hit me now
b____es use to play me now they cant forget me now
Forget me not, I rock the spot, check glock
Empty off a lickin off a hip hop
f___ the billboard, Im a bullet on my block
How you dope when you payed for your billboard spot?


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___
Look up in the sky it's a bird it's a plane
Recognize, Johnny Blaze, ain't a d___ thing changed
HOW HIGH? So High that I can kiss the sky
HOW SICK? So Sick that you can suck my d___

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___in O
Check it, I brings havoc with my hectic
Movin on your left kid, and I'm methted, out my f___in dome piece
Plus I got no love for the beast
Hailin from the big East Coast
Where n____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__ 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
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 canals of Panama
Just off stamina
Styles not to be f___ed with, or played with
f___ 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___ 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 a__ p____ a__
[You ain't gotta say no more man, that's it]
Word up Tical, We Out

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