How High Lyrics - Tical 2000 Judgementday - Method Man

Takin it from the top? 

Tippy? Tippy? 

How high? 

The Ultimate high 

'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, 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 

While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse 

When I raise my trigga finga all y'all niggaz hit the decks 

'Cause ain't no need for that, hustlers and hardcores 

Raw to the floor raw like Reservoir Dogs 

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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 

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 don't need no rap tour 

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

More than you bargained for 

Tical, that 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 

Photos 

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 don't stop till I get enough 

Your shit broke down, light your flare 

Since the dark side 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, hit me now 

(Tical) 

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 a hip hop 

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

How you dope when you payed for your Billboard spot? 

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 

'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, I'm the second one to hit it 

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 

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 fucked with, or played with 

Fuck the pretty hoes, I love those, Section A Bitches 

Hittin' switches, twistin' 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 

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)