How High Lyrics

[Method Man]
Excuse me as I kiss the sky
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full a rye
Who the f*ck 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 blow
It be goin' down, diggy diggy down diggy down down

[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
(MM: f*cking with us) Is a straight suicide

[Method Man]
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4
3, 2, murder 1 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
f*ck'a 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
[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 darkside 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
A yo, my man (Tical) hit me now
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 a hip-hop
f*ck the Billboard, I'm a bullet on my block
How you dope when you payed for your Billboard spot?

[Hook]
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
[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 f*ckin' 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 f*cking 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

[Redman]
Hey boy, you the rude boy on the block
You try to stop the bum rush, you will get popped

[Method Man]
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

[Redman]
Look up in the, I got the verbs, nouns and Glocks in ya
Enter the center, lyrics bang like Ricochet 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 f*cked with or played with
f*ck 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
f*ck 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

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