Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song How High , by - DJ Cut Killer. Song from the album Hip-Hop Soul Party, Vol. 2, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопRelease date: 11.05.2010
Record label: Double H
Song language: English
How High |
| Takin it from the top? |
| Tippy? |
| Tippy? |
| How high? |
| The Ultimate high |
| 'Scuse me as I kiss the sky |
| Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full a rye |
| Who the fuck wanna die for their culture? |
| Stalk the dead body like a vulture |
| Tical get, 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 y’all niggas hit the decks |
| 'Cause ain’t 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 |
| 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 Murder 1, 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 rapture |
| 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 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 don’t stop till I get enough |
| Your shit broke down, light your flare |
| Since the dark side tears you into Hollywood squares |
| 6 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, hit me now |
| (Tical) |
| 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 your dirt weed we got a fuckin' O |
| 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 niggas 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, I’m 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 Smif’n’Wes |
| 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 Bitches |
| Hittin' switches, twistin' 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 |
| To light the spliff, and read Mad magazine |
| I fly more heads than Continental |
| Wreck ya 5 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) |
| Word up Tical, we out |
| (It's over) |