How High (Remix)

Takin it from the top?
 Tippy? Tippy?
 How High?...
 The Ultimate High...
 'Scuse 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
 Tical get, hmmm
 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 yall niggaz 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 Bitch
 Plus, the Bombazee got me wild
 (Fuckin with us) is a straight suicide
 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 mine to get yours
 Fucka, 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 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
 Aint no use for resistance, H-O-D
 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 dont stop 'till I get enough
 Your shit broke down, light your flare
 Since the darkside tears you into hollywood squares
 Six 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 (Tical) hit me now
 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 yo dirt, we, we got our fuckin own
 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, Im 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 Smiff and Wess
 Who clicks the best
 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 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
 Fuck the marines, I got machines
 To light the spliff, and read Mad magazine
 I fly more heads than Continental
 Wreck ya five 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)