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