How High (Remix Radio Edit)

Takin' it from the top? (Hell yeah, we taking it from the top) Tippy? All my people (sing it, daddy) Hey, uh

Excuse me as I kiss the sky Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful a rye Who the fuck wanna die for their culture Stalk the dead body like a vulture Ticallion, hmmm Blacker than your blackest stallion Hit your housing projects I represent yo' Shaolin my nigga Hell 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 then that Toucan Sam bitch Plus, the Bombazee got me wide... (Fuckin' with us) is a straight suicide

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4 Three, two, murder one lyric at your door Tical bring it to that ass raw Breaking all the rules like glass jaws Nigga, you got to get mine to get yours Fucker, we don't 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-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's be 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 Yo' shit broke down, light your flair This the dark side tears 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 monkey ass Ayo my man (Tical) hear me now Bitches used to play me, now they can't forget me now Forget me not, I rock the spot, check Glock Empty off a lickin' 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 Spock smokin' buddah on the 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, 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 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 Smif 'n' Wess'; who clique's the best? Punks take a sip and test, who split 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 smitha-reens 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 For the nine nickle

Yo Red, yo Red Punk ass, pussy ass We ain't gotta show you no more, man We out