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 f___ 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 n____

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 n____z 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 b____

Plus, the Bombazee got me wild

(f___in 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 a__ raw

Breakin all the rules like glass jaws

n____, you got to get mine to get yours

f___a, 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 n____ on dust

The Egyptian Musk use to have me pull mad s___s

I shift like a clutch with the Ruck

Examine my nuts, I dont stop till I get enough

Your s___ 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 a__

And yo my man (Tical) hit me now

b____es 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

f___ 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 d___

Look up in the sky it's a bird it's a plane

Recognize, Johnny Blaze, ain't a d___ thing changed

HOW HIGH? So High that I can kiss the sky

HOW SICK? So Sick that you can suck my d___

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 f___in O

Check it, I brings havoc with my hectic

Movin on your left kid, and I'm methted, out my f___in dome piece

Plus I got no love for the beast

Hailin from the big East Coast

Where n____z 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 b__ 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

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 f___ed with, or played with

f___ 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

f___ 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 a__ p____ a__

[You ain't gotta say no more man, that's it]

Word up Tical, We Out

[IT'S OVER]

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