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Artist: Method Man and Redman
Album:  Blackout *
Song:   How High
Typed by: OHHLA Webmaster DJ Flash

* originally appeared on "The Show" soundtrack

Takin it from the top?
Tippy? Tippy?
Sing it daddy, sing it daddy
Where you at? (High, high, How High?)
Takin my mind where it's never gone before
That's like a mushroom in cow shit
And I'm takin it just to get the ultimate high
The ultimate high... (whoahhhhhh)

[Verse One: Method Man]
Excuse me as I kiss the sky
Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full of rye
Who the fuck wanna die for they culture?
Stalk the dead body like a vulture; Ticallion, HMMM
Blacker than your blackest stallion, hit yo' housin
projects I represent yo Shaolin my nigga
Hell yes, +Apocalypse Now+, the gun pow
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 trigger finger all y'all niggaz hit the decks!
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 bom-ba-zee got me wide
(Fuckin with us) is a straight suicide

[Verse Three: Method Man]
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 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 - 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

[Verse Four: Redman]
I beez 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 'til I get enough
Yo' shit broke down, light your flare
Since the +Darkside+ tears you into +Hollywood Squares+
Six million ways to die, so I chose
Made it six million and one wit'cha eyes closed
The blindfold, cold, so you can feel the wrath
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 in hip-hop
Fuck the +Billboard+ I'm a +Bullet+ on my block
How you dope when you paid for yo' 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

[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 yo' dirt weed 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 meth-ted, out my fuckin dome piece
Plus I got no love fo' the beast
Hailin from the big East, coast
Where niggaz pack, toast - home of the drug kingpin, and cutthroats
(Hey boy, are the rude boy on the block?)
(You tried to stop the bumrush, 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
[Verse Six: Redman]
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 AK 'matic
Rollin blunts an all day habit
I get it on like Smif-N-Wes', who clique's the best?
Punks take a sip and test, who splits 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 8 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
that light the spliff, and read Mad magazines
I fly more heads than Continental
Wreck you five times like US Air off an instrumental
Look I'm not a halfway crook with bad looks
But I make murder your cae like your name was Cal Brooks
I breaks 'em off proper, ask Biggie Smalls "Who Shot Ya?"
Funk Doctor, with the twelve 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 got to say no more man, that's it)
Word up Tical, we out
(It's over)