How High lyrics

Artist  : Method Man 
Song : How High



 Send "How High" Ringtone to your Cell 

 (feat. Redman)


[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

Id 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

Aint 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 dont need yo dirt, we, we got our fuckin
own

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 Smiff and Wess

Who clicks the best

Punks take a sip and test

Who split your vest

The funk phenomenon

Im 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)