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ARTIST(s):        Method Man
SONG TITLE:      How High
ALBUM:              Blackout
BY:                      Loenatic(rifhat)*

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 pocket 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] 
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