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