Letra de How High ( Remix)
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 in 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 Who split your vest Punks take a sip and test 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]