| It’s Funk Doc
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| Where da weed at, bitch?!
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| I speed back wist, down to one-way from cops
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| See thas' shit?! |
| Believe thas' shit!
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| Slaughter straight to camcorder, I’m too hot for t. |
| v Backdraw water, my windpipes attached to Project-ballers
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| You yell: «Turn the heat down!»
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| My voice, diggi-di-round-sound, some herb round town
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| And chances of ya’ll leavin', round now
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| Wait later, will make Funk page paper
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| They rape up the Juveline Ave Graders
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| Hit the High School at 187 Caesar
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| When I bust ya’ll need to back 4 achers
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| Doc ya’ll and that’s my man Jap-A-Jaw
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| The shitlist ready, who next to scratch off?
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| I’m from the underground, my soundlib
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| Platform shoes to bitches, 400 pounds!
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| : Meth & Red
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| Get up, stand up, back up, push 'em
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| Jump up, act up to make you feel it!
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| Brrrrr… STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
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| Brrrrr… STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
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| Yo' BLACKOUT, SHOOT OUT, SMOKED OUT
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| Move out, even knock the tooth out, to make ya’ll feel it!
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| Brrrrr… STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
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| Brrrrr… STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM
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| Now I’m the streettalkin', dogwalkin'
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| A pursuit with extreme caution, OH NOW YOU FORCIN'?
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| My hand that rock yo' cradle often
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| I’m hot-scorchin', but stome cold like Steve Austin
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| If you smell what Tical cookin', ain’t try to see, send you bookin'
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| So til ya gon' stop lookin', now what you did last summer?
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| So I started hookin', you past shookin'
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| Over open can I ass-whoopin'?
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| Ain’t no Tamara’s in the Method’s Little Shop Of Horrors
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| Go ask your father who the father from the Hilbill harbour
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| You know tha saga, marihuana plushin' gold sluggaz
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| With deadly medley, ya’ll ain’t ready for Shakwon and Reggie
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| Don’t even bother, the radio for back-up
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| Alright then, ya man got slapped up extorted for his icin'
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| Streetlife is triflin' *Body over here!!!*
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| Come meet me like Tyson and bite a nigga' ear
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| Precisin', slicin' juggerless the cut-crew
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| Ruggeder, Predator, Viking, Exatorer
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| People’s champ, niggas be takin' off competetors
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| Reachin' for the microphone, relax and light a bone
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| Straight from the Caticone
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| The Children Of The Corn, that don’t got a clue
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| Prepare for desert storm!
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| I scored 1.1 on my SAT
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| And still pushin' whip with a right and left AC
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| Gorilla, Big Dog, if my name get caught
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| I’m behind the brickwall with Aus and Nick Jaws
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| Spit poison, got a gun permit draw
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| Gundown at Sundown you keep score!
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| This training-course and ya’ll ain’t fit
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| On my crew-tombstone put 'We All Ain’t Shit'
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| Yo', all you gonna be, want to be When will you learn? |
| want to be Doc and Meth? |
| Gotta wait ya turn
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| I spit a .41 Revolver on New Year’s Eve
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| With the mic in my hand I mutilate m.c.'s
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| The most slapped on? |
| and wink
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| My shit stink with every element from A to Z So what you think? |
| I’ma blackout on just one drink?
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| You must be crazy! |
| A little off the wall maybe
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| Go get a shrink… |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Blackout , by - Method Man. Song from the album Blackout!, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп