How High Lyrics

How High lyrics

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 yall niggaz 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
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
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 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 dont 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, Im 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, Im 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]