How High

Takin' it from the top?

Top

Tippy?

Come on, my people

Sing it, daddy

Hey, yeah

Taking my mind where it's never gone before

And so like a mushroom in cow shit

And I'm taking it just to get the ultimate high, baby

The ultimate high (oh)

Excuse me as I kiss the sky

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye

Who the fuck 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 nigga

Now yes, Apocalypse now, the gun blaow

It be goin' down, diggy diggy down, diggy down, down

While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse

When I raise my trigger finger, all y'all niggas 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 bitch

Plus the Bombazee got me wide (fucking with us)

Is a straight suicide

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 mines to get yours

Fucker, we don't need no rap tour

I'd rather kick the facts and catch you with the rapture

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

I be's the ultimate rush to any nigga on dust

The Egyptian Musk used 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

Your shit broke down, light your flare

Since the dark side 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 glass and second half on your funky ass

Ayo, my man (Tical), hear me now (huh)

Bitches 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 in hip-hop

Fuck the Billboard, I'm a bullet on my block

How you dope when you paid for your Billboard spot?

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 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

'Til 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 fuckin' 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 fucking dome piece, plus I got no love for the beast

Hailing from the big East Coast, where niggas pack toast

Home of the drug kingpin and cut throats

Hey boy, you the rude boy on the block

You try to stop the bum rush, you will get popped

As I run a mile with a racist

My style was born in the pissy staircases

Dig it, F a rap critic

He talk about it while I live it

If Red got the blunt, I'm the second one to hit it

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 A-K 'matic

Rollin' blunts an all day habit

I get it on like Smith & Wes', who clique's the best?

Punks take a sip and test, who splits your vest?

The funk phenomenon, I'm bombing you like Lebanon

Blow canals of Panama just off stamina

Styles not to be fucked with or played with

Fuck 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 Diga-boo

Scared you, blew you to smithereens

Fuck the Marines, I got machines

That like to spit and read MAD magazines

I fly more heads than Continental

Wreck ya five times like U.S. Air off an instrumental

Look, I'm not a halfway crook with bad looks

But I may murder your case like your name was Cal Brooks

I breaks 'em off proper

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 (yo Red)

For the nine nickel (yo Red)

Yo, Red, yo, Red (punk ass, pussy ass)

You ain't got the shade no more, man, that's it, man (word up, man)

We out, it's over

Fake ass niggas