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