How High

You taking it from the top? (top)

Tippy

Sing it daddy

Taking it back

Take my mind where it's never gone before

At the mic I'm much moving cow shit

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

Ha ha the ultimate high

Excuse me as I kiss the sky

Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye

Who the fuck wanna die for they culture

Stalk the dead body like a vulture

They gouging

Blacker than your blackest stallion

Hit your housing projects

I represent your Shaolin my nigga

Oh yes apocalypse now the gun pow

We be going down diggy diggy down diggy down down

When the planet and the stars and the moons collapse

When I raise my trigger finger all you niggas hit the deck

Cause ain't no need for that

Hustlers and hardcore

Roar to the floor

Raw like Reservoir Dogs

The green eyed bandit can't stand it

With more booty I lose than that you can't stand bitch

Plus the babazi got me wide

Fucking with us is just straight suicide

10 9 8 7 6 5 4

3 2 Murder 1 lyrics at your door

The cow wringer till that ass roar

Breaking all the rules like last yours

Nigga you got to get mine to get yours

Fucker we don't need no rap tour

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

More than you bargained for

The counter stays open like an all night store

For real I keep you 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-P

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

The Egyptian musk used to have me pour mad suds

I shift like a clutch with a rust

Examine my nuts

I don't stop till I get enough

Your shit broke down light your flare

Since the dark side teared you into Hollywood Square

Six million ways to die so I chose

Made a six million and with your eyes closed

And blindfold cold so you can feel the wrath

And shatter the glass and second half on your funky ass

And yo my man (Cow) hit me now

Bitches used to play me now they can't forget me now

They get me not

I rock the spot

Check clock

Empty upper kicking off in the hip hop

Fuck the Billboard I'm a bullet on my block

How you dealt 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 Spock smoking buddha on a train

How high

So high that you 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

Well get out Johnny Blaze ain't a damn thing changed

How high

So high that you can kiss the sky

How sick

So sick that you can suck my dick

To my man Radar Ruckus come home

It ain't really on till the Ruckus get home

Riverman on I walk to the red zone

We don't need your dirt we we got our fucking own

Check it

I wreaks havoc with my hectic

Bring your pain lyrics screaming for the antiseptic

Moving on your left kick and the method of my fucking

Don't peace cause I have no love for the beast

Hailing from the big east coast where niggas pack toast

Home of the drug kingpins and cut throats

Hey boy are you the rude boy on the block

You try to stop the bum rush you will get popped

As I run the mile where the race is

My style was born in them empty 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 bird nines and Glocks see ya

Into the center

Lyrics play like Vicar

Stray rabbit I bring havoc with an AK-matic

Rolling blunts an all day habit

I get it on like Smith and Wesson

Who clips it best

Punks take a sniff and test

Who splits your vest

The funk phenomena

I'm bombing you like Lebanon

Blow canals like Panama

Just on stamina

Styles not to be fucked with or played with

Fucked the pretty hoes I love those sex and hate bitch

Just hitting snitches

Twisting wigs with fat radical mathematical type scriptures

I dig up and plant it like Digga

Boo scared you

Blew you to smithereens

Fuck the marines

I got machines that like to spit and read mad magazines

I play more hands than Continental

Wreck you five times like US 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 break some off proper

Ask Biggie Smalls who shot ya

Funk Doctor with the twelve gauge monster

Look I got the tools like Rickle

To make your mind tickle

For the nine nickel

Your punk ass

Pussy ass

You ain't got to say no more

It's over