Artist: Method Man and Redman Album: Blackout * Song: How High Typed by: OHHLA Webmaster DJ Flash * originally appeared on "The Show" soundtrack [Intro] Takin it from the top? Tippy? Tippy? Sing it daddy, sing it daddy Heeeyyy! Where you at? (High, high, How High?) Takin my mind where it's never gone before That's like a mushroom in cow shit And I'm takin it just to get the ultimate high The ultimate high... (whoahhhhhh) [Verse One: Method Man] Excuse me as I kiss the sky Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full of rye Who the fuck wanna die for they culture? Stalk the dead body like a vulture; Ticallion, HMMM Blacker than your blackest stallion, hit yo' housin projects I represent yo Shaolin my nigga Hell yes, +Apocalypse Now+, the gun pow 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 trigger finger all y'all niggaz hit the decks! 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 bitch Plus, the bom-ba-zee got me wide (Fuckin with us) is a straight suicide [Verse Three: Method Man] Ten nine eight seven six five four Three two +murder one+ 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 Fucker, 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 kill And end your existence, M-E-T Ain't no use for resistance, H-O-D [Verse Four: Redman] I beez 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 don't stop 'til I get enough Yo' shit 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 wit'cha eyes closed The blindfold, cold, so you can feel the wrath 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 can't forget me now Forget me not, I rock the spot, check Glock Empty off a lickin off in hip-hop Fuck the +Billboard+ I'm a +Bullet+ on my block How you dope when you paid for yo' 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 yo' dirt weed 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 meth-ted, out my fuckin dome piece Plus I got no love fo' the beast Hailin from the big East, coast Where niggaz pack, toast - home of the drug kingpin, and cutthroats (Hey boy, are the rude boy on the block?) (You tried to stop the bumrush, you will get popped) As I run a mile with a racist My style was born in the pissy staircases 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 [Verse Six: Redman] Look up in the, I got the verbs nouns and Glocks in ya Enter the center, lyrics bang like Rico-chet Rabbit I brings havoc with an AK 'matic Rollin blunts an all day habit I get it on like Smif-N-Wes', who clique's the best? Punks take a sip and test, who splits 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 8 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 that light the spliff, and read Mad magazines I fly more heads than Continental Wreck you five times like US Air off an instrumental Look I'm not a halfway crook with bad looks But I make murder your cae like your name was Cal Brooks I breaks 'em off 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! (Yo Red, yo Red!) Punk ass, pussy ass (You ain't got to say no more man, that's it) Word up Tical, we out (It's over)