Lyrics Fire - Method Man, U-God, Scotty Wotty

Fire

I whip cause I sprung shit, bang, here’s a bung hit
Cats split your tongue, shit, bitch got cum sick
She can keep the knee pads, sign for the helmet
Man vibrations, coming off the pelvis
Thugs and prescription drugs, yo, where’s Elvis?
Pull off the panties, she was smelling like a shellfish
Gung when we rung shit, that run, here we come, spit
Eyes on the gunship, heh, here’s your Blistex
Here’s a spliff twist, hanging out the window like a rhyme smith
Now you taking flicks of my footprint
Sunshine and dough ride just like a biscuit
Live wire, no installation is required
One match, I set the world on fire
Live wires, no installation is required
One match, I set the world is fire
The God said to put the fire on it
The God said to put the fire on it
One match, we set the world on fire
One match, we set the world on fire
It’s the art of war combat, every move is high tech
Human Terminator nigga, plug me into SkyNet
Red bone, hot head, burnt down my projects
I turn sound into killing flying objects
Blood off contracts, kill ‘em on contact
Yeah, I got bread, dead?
Nope, not yet
Damn, you ain’t pop yet, haters wanna block that
Snatch mics, hunchback, talk smack, I punch back
Flew off the launchpad, right through your insides
Great minds combine, try to study my enzymes
Skating on the thin line, fighting for the airtime
Push back your hairline, with shots of tequila lime
Stay on my global grind, talk with a sober mind
Putting in more overtime, till I reach a billion
In the condominium, skinny tall Brazilian
With so many tats, she looking reptilian
My hand hot, killer, curry in the pot, killer
Look how these killers thinking they are and they not, killers
I get the drop, killer, all the killings stop, killer
My heavy hitters flex on everyone you got with ya
This track’s not filler, talk with my hands, I’m tryna feel ya
It might be the fact that we not familiar
Or, not La Familia, a monkey with bars
You not gorilla, Zilla, calling you Don, my pen has gotten iller
Yeah, you know who we are, you know the slums
Where the women keep the wook in they bra, that’s where I’m from
Cops catch you with the rook in the car, this where you run
You can die here, son, and the ambulance never come, ugh
Ain’t no limit till I spit it, my Yankee fitted
Shout out to critics that know I’m wicked for killing minute
Shout out to rappers that ain’t committed, but think they get it
Hold up, now wait a minute, let me put some hating in it