Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song America's Most, artist - Method Man. Date of issue: 31.12.2000
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
America's Most |
| Yo, welcome |
| This is MC sharper image |
| I’m standing here with my dog technology |
| And we are here to uplift you mind |
| and upgrade your systems |
| so come on down everyone that wants to get some |
| plug in and boot, and boot |
| Yo, Yo, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass |
| I’ve come to eat grub and slap ass |
| And show my whole entire black ass |
| Y’all know the saying he who laughs last laughs loudest |
| Bang the loudest, can’t a coward do a thing 'bout it What the bum-ba claat like aye carumba |
| Here’s my name and number, lets La Rhumba |
| Doc, it makes me wonder; |
| how many heads has Heather Hunter’s |
| How many different conclusions to come to And my sixteen bars meth, hittin’too hard |
| With a total disregard for whole entourage |
| Rap phenom, slap your ass, snap your thong to my theme song |
| And hope you don’t get clap upon |
| Who that kid, as dirty as that Ol’Dirty Bastard |
| Who that kid, who pack a tool belt and dirty belt and dirty ratchet |
| Set your tape recorder, lock down your daughter |
| Soon as a touch the rap game, out of order |
| Do I get brollic |
| Gimme that car ill show you how to flip mileage |
| Gimme that mic, ill short it with a quick wattage |
| Skip college for the big wallet |
| The ape with a fire escape from the weight of a hit product |
| My draft is cold like miller beer |
| When you hear it, you see more stars than tigger’s cheer |
| The red nigga here, and its out of control |
| Something like when Ron Gold’went out with Nicole |
| I’ll bring it back to the streets where the crooks belong |
| And if it ain’t come back raw, you cooked it wrong |
| Gangsta bomb, hold your nose |
| At the show, ill be shittin’out my mouth like my colon closed |
| Me and meth, 100 proof, in case y’all a biter |
| And ovaries, feel these great ball of fire |
| (Doc, where the lighter) I’m hemming them up Coffee grind them and put them in a vanilla dutch |
| (with America’s’most after the end of each line) |
| Believe that, the brothers in the house now be that |
| Believe that, lets turn the mother out now, be that |
| Beback, that what it all about now, be that |
| We not playin'(knowwhatinsayn'sonsayin) |
| Believe that, the brothers in the house now be that |
| Believe that, lets turn the mother out now, be that |
| Beback, that what it all about now, be that |
| Fuck with the meth (knowwhatinsayn'sonsayin) |
| I’m looking at you killers like you stole something, fuck ya life |
| Trust my niggaz, sometimes for I trust my wife |
| Fuck it, I’m nice, y’all don’t be rushing the mic |
| With your guns in your left hand |
| Not bustin’it right |
| Ain’t no I in the team |
| Ain’t no eyen’my cream |
| I’m a semi-auto, clean |
| Rapid-fire machine |
| Cocky, six foot three with knock knees |
| Attract hoodrats for blocks cause I got cheese |
| yo, dude I carry cheese, but I don’t flaunt it when the towel it thrown it, you know there’s grown men that spoke on it We both want it, the Trackmasters |
| Puncturing holes in the beat when a vocal tone poke on it Barbaric, my caddie truck beyond average |
| with the same size wheels that on a horse carriage |
| up in the air, spot my dudes |
| Rollin’over shit like B. Rhymes on mountain dew |
| — repeat 2X |