How High Lyrics by Method Man

How High

* originally appeared on "the show" soundtrack

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 fuck 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 nigga
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 yall niggaz hit the decks!
Cause aint 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 bitch
Plus, the bombazee got me wild
[fuckin 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 ass raw
Breakin all the rules like glass jaws
Nigga, you got to get mine to get yours
Fucka, 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 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 nigga on dust
The egyptian musk use to have me pull mad sluts
I shift like a clutch with the ruck
Examine my nuts, I dont stop till I get enough
Your shit 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
Bitches 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
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 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 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 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 fuckin o
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 fuckin dome piece
Plus I got no love for the beast
Hailin from the big east coast
Where niggaz 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 bum 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, Im 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
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 fucked with, or played with
Fuck 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
Fuck 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 ass pussy ass
[you aint gotta say no more man, thats it]
Word up tical, we out
[its over]