| Takin it from the top?
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| Tippy? |
| Tippy?
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| How high?
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| The Ultimate high
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| 'Scuse me as I kiss the sky
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| Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full a rye
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| Who the fuck wanna die for their culture?
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| Stalk the dead body like a vulture
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| Tical get, blacker than your blackest stallion
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| Hit your house’n projects, I represent the Shaolin my nigga
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| Hell yes, 'Apocalypse Now', the gun blow
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| It be goin' down, diggy diggy down diggy down down
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| While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse
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| When I raise my trigga finga all y’all niggas hit the decks
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| 'Cause ain’t no need for that, hustlers and hardcores
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| Raw to the floor raw like Reservoir Dogs
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| The Green-Eyed Bandit can’t stand it
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| With more Fruitier Loops then that Toucan Sam Bitch
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| Plus, the Bombazee got me wild
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| Fuckin' with us is a straight suicide
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| 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 Murder 1, lyric at your door
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| Tical bring it to that ass raw
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| Breakin' all the rules like glass jaws
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| Nigga, you got to get mine to get yours
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| Fucka, we don’t need no rap tour
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| I’d rather kick the facts and catch you with the rapture
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| More than you bargained for
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| Tical, that stays open like an all night store
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| For real, I keeps it ill like a piece of blue steel
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| Pointed at your temple with the intent to kill
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| And end your existence, M-E-T
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| Ain’t no use for resistance, H-O-D
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| I bees the ultimate rush to any nigga on dust
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| The Egyptian Musk use to have me pull mad sluts
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| I shift like a clutch with the Ruck
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| Examine my nuts, I don’t stop till I get enough
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| Your shit broke down, light your flare
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| Since the dark side tears you into Hollywood squares
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| 6 million ways to die, so I chose
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| Made it 6 million and 1 with your eyes closed
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| The blindfold, cold, so you can feel the rap
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| And shatter the glass and second half on your monkey ass
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| And yo my man, hit me now
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| (Tical)
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| Bitches use to play me, now they can’t forget me now
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| Forget me not, I rock the spot, check Glock
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| Empty off a lickin' off a hip hop
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| Fuck the billboard, I’m a bullet on my block
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| How you dope when you payed for your Billboard spot?
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| Look up in the sky, it’s a bird, it’s a plane
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| It’s the funk doctor spock smokin' Buddha on a train
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| How high? |
| So high that I can kiss the sky
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| How sick? |
| So sick that you can suck my dick
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| Look up in the sky it’s a bird it’s a plane
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| Recognize, Johnny Blaze, ain’t a damn thing changed
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| How high? |
| So high that I can kiss the sky
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| How sick? |
| So sick that you can suck my dick
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| 'Til my man Raider Ruckus come home
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| It ain’t really on till the Ruckus get, home
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| Puff a meth bone, now I’m off to the red zone
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| We don’t need your dirt weed we got a fuckin' O
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| Check it, I brings havoc with my hectic
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| Bring the Pain lyrics screamin' for the antiseptic
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| Movin' on your left kid, and I’m methted, out my fuckin' dome piece
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| Plus I got no love for the beast
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| Hailin' from the big East Coast
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| Where niggas pack toast
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| Home of the drug kingpins and cut throats
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| (Hey boy, you’s the rude boy on the block)
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| (You try and stop the bum rush you will get popped)
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| As I run around with a racist
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| My style was born in the 50 stair cases
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| Dig it, eff a rap critic
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| He talk about it while I live it
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| If Red got the blunt, I’m the second one to hit it
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| Look up in the, I got the verbs, nouns and Glocks in ya
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| Enter the centa, lyrics bang like rico-chet
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| Rabbit, I brings havoc with an A-K matic
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| Rollin' blunts an all day habit
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| I get it on like Smif’n’Wes
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| Punks take a sip and test
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| Who split your vest
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| The funk phenomenon
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| I’m bombin' you like Lebanon
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| Blow canals of Panama
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| Just off stamina
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| Styles not to be fucked with, or played with
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| Fuck the pretty hoes, I love those, Section A Bitches
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| Hittin' switches, twistin' wigs with
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| Fat radical mathematical type scriptures
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| I dig up in your planets like Diga
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| Boo, scared you, blew you to smithereens
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| Fuck the marines, I got machines
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| To light the spliff, and read Mad magazine
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| I fly more heads than Continental
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| Wreck ya 5 times like US AIR off an instrumental
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| Look I’m not a half way crook with bad looks
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| But I may murder your case like your name was Cal Brooks
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| I breaks 'em up proppa
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| Ask Biggie Smalls 'Who Shot Ya'
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| Funk doctor, with the 12 Gauge Mossberg
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| Look, I got the tools like Rickle
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| To make your mind tickle
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| For the nine nickle
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| (Yo Red, yo Red)
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| Punk ass pussy ass
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| (You ain’t gotta say no more man, that’s it)
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| Word up Tical, we out
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| (It's over) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song How High , by - Redman. Song from the album Best Of, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп