Lyrics Therapy - Masta Killa, Method Man, Redman

Therapy

The first fresh thoughts of the day are so clear
When I walk, in my head, there’s a voice that talks
In my ear I can hear so clear, you think I’m buggin', right?
I’m just contemplating the silent, holla for this
Out to the West Side my killer Cali gangstas ride and get they head right
Yo, son, I’m on the next flight in
Twist somethin' tight, I’m guaranteed to write a hit song before we reach
Throw the instrumental on and watch this word pattern of speech
Men form, military armed, ready to swarm, get your party on
Drinks on the house tonight, ladies lookin' right
Atmosphere nice and warm, we backstage like a hundred thieves strong
Ghost want the red light on before we get on
An hour’s too short to rock, we got a million songs
Oh yeah, this real nice right here Kill Kill
Oh yeah?
Oh yeah, I’m feelin' this one right here
Yeah
Okay
So it’s my turn to sit in the chair?
Indeed, my brother
Aight, let’s go (Haha)
Yo, I gotta be around this music, it’s therapeutic
Light my first blunt of the day to start the movement
I’m sittin' in the room with a view, there’s always room for improvement
So I grab my coat and go and prove it
Just me against the world, you can find me in the streets
She’ll spot me in the lobby, probably find me in the free
Cop a 'Rari, the lobby in the linin' of my seats
Tryna put me in a lineup 'til I wind up in the beast
That’s the belly, how dare they try to tell me when to eat
With a plate of food barely in my reach
My team shoot dice, we used to shoot skelly in the streets
Wear the same Pelle-Pelle's for a week
But now we livin' life
It’s such a good life I wish that I could live it twice
I’d probably make the same wiz my wife
It’s Wu-Tang Clan, always collect cheddar
Proper education, always correct errors
Killa house in the buildin'
You all ready, nigga?
Hey yo, peace to my brothers from
Yes sir, nigga
Good lookin', nigga
Yo, bananas, Redman so gorilla
Chi-town know I’m pimpin' the mic, nigga
One hit, and chicks follow me like Twitter
Crack when I talk, I like the mic stem up
The fiends hit it, chicks swing with it
I’ll box niggas in like Don King did it
Sixteens I write, it’s seems so vivid
My notebooks I’m lettin' eBay bid it
I get dough, bad pair for the sick flow
My weed more greener than Lou Ferrigno
My right-hand man hand on the pistol
I crack these squares up like Nabisco
Oh, look at me, I’m lightweight
But with the heart to peel back your white meat
Yo wifey want me to make her wifey
Hit it, make the bitch hyphy at high speed
Doc