Dave Greenberg - 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** 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 n***a 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 n***as 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 b**h Plus the Bombazee got me wide [Method Man] f**ing with us [Redman] 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 a** raw Breakin' all the rules like gla** jaws n***a, you got to get mines to get yours f**'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 k** 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 n***a on dust The Egyptian Musk used to have me pull mad s*uts I shift like a clutch with the Ruck Examine my nuts, I don't stop till I get enough Your sh** 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 gla** and second half on your monkey-a** And yo my man (Tical) hit me now b**hes 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** 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 s** 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 s** my dick [Method Man] Till 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**in' 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**ing dome piece, plus I got no love for the beast Hailing from the big East Coast, where n***as pack toast Home of the drug kingpins and cut throats [Redman] [Hey boy, you's the rude boy on the block You try and 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 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 [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' Wes who clicks the best Punks take a sip and test, who split your vest The funk phenomenon, I'm bombing you like Lebanon Blow can*ls of Panama just off stamina Styles not to be f**ed with or played with f** 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 Digga -- boo Scared you, blew you to smitha-reens f** the Marines, I got machines That like to spit and read Mad Magazine I fly more heads than Continental Wreck ya five times like U.S. 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 proper Ask Biggie Smalls Who Shot Ya Funk doctor with the twelve Gauge Mossberg Look I got the tools like Rickle To make your mind tickle For the nine nickle