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Basically, can't fuck with me |
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I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain |
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Let's go inside my astral plane |
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Find out my mental's based on instrumental |
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Records hey, so I can write monumental |
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Methods, I'm not the king |
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But niggaz is decaf I stick 'em for the cream |
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Check it, just how deep can shit get |
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Deep as the abyss and brothers is mad fish accept it |
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In your cross color, clothes you've crossed over |
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Then got totally krossed out and Kris Kross |
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Who da boss? Niggaz get tossed to the side |
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And I'm the dark side of the force |
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Of course it's the Method Man from the Wu-Tang Clan |
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I be hectic and comin' for the head piece protect it |
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Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus |
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Bustin' at me brush, now bust it |
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Styles, I gets buck wild |
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Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggaz files |
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I'm sick, insane, crazy, drivin' Miss Daisy |
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Out her fuckin' mind now I got Martin Swayze |
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Is it real son, is it really real son? |
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Let me know it's real son, if it's really real |
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Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one |
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Want it raw deal son, if it's really real |
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And when I was a lil' stereo |
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(Stereo) |
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I listened to some champion |
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(Champion) |
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I always wondered |
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(Wondered) |
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Will now I be the numba one? |
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(Tical! Hahaha) |
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Now you listen to de gargon |
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(Gargon!) |
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And de gargon summary |
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And any man dat come test me |
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(Test me) |
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Me gwanna lick out dem brains |
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(It's like that) |
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Brothers want to hang with the Meth bring the rope |
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The only way you hang is by the neck nigga poke |
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Off the set comin' to your projects |
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Take it as a threat, better yet it's a promise |
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Comin' from a vet on some old Vietnam shit |
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Nigga you can bet your bottom dollar hey I bomb shit |
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And it's gonna get even worse word to God |
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It's the Wu comin' through sickin' niggaz for they garments |
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Movin' on your left, southpaw 'em it's the Meth |
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Came to represent and carve my name in your chest |
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You can come test realize you're no contest |
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Son, I'm the gun that won that old Wild West |
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Quick on the draw with my hands on the four |
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Nine three eleven with the rugged rhymes galore |
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Check it 'cause I think not when this hip-hops like proper |
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Rhymes be the proof while I'm drinkin' 90 proof |
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Huh vodka, no OJ, no straw, when you give it to me aiy, give it to me raw |
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I've learned when you drink absolute straight it burns |
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Enough to give my chest hairs a perm |
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I don't need a chemical blow to pull a hoe |
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All I need is chemical bank to pay da mo' |
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What, basically that, Meth-Tical, ninety-four style |
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Word up we be hazardous car crashing, horn passing me |
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Northern spicy brown mustard hoes |
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We have to stick you |
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Is it real son, is it really real son? |
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Let me know it's real son, if it's really real |
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Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one |
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Want it raw deal son, if it's really real |
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I'll fuckin', I'll fuckin' cut your kneecaps off |
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And make you kneel in some staircase piss |
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I'll fuckin', cut your eyelids off |
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And feed you nuthin' but sleepin' pills |
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You motherfuckers |
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So fuck the hoe |
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(So) |
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Fuck the hoe |
