Lemme tell you now   I came to bring the pain   Hardcore from the brain   Let's go inside my astral plane      Find out my mental based on instrumental   Records hey, so I can make monumental   Methods I'm not the king but nigga's is decaf   I stick 'em for the cream, check it      Just how deep can shit get, get deeper than your fists   And brothers is mad pissed, accept it   In your cross colors clothes, you crossed over   And now you're totally crossed out, Kriss Kross      Who the boss, nigga's get tossed to the side   I'm the dark side of the force, of course   It's the Method Man from the Wu-Tang Clan   I be hectic and coming for that headpiece protect it      Fuck it, two tears in a bucket   Nigga's want the ruckas, so bust it at me son, now bust it   Styles, I get buckwild, Method Man on some shit   Fucking nigga's foul, son, I'm sick      Insane crazy   Driving Miss Daisy   How the fuck am I   Now I got mine, I'm swayze      Is it real, son   Let me know it's real, son   If it's really real, son   Let me know it's real      Load it up and kill one   Load it up and kill one   Load it up and kill one   If it's really real      When I was a little stereo, I use to be the champion   I always wonder when I would be the number one   Hey, hey, hey   And now you listen to me darcon, darcon      And all you nigga's come and test me, test me   I'm gonna lick out your brains   Mothers wanna hang with the Meth, bring the rope   'Cause the only way you hang is by the neck      Nigga, pump off a set, coming through all your projects   Take it as a threat or better yet it is a promise   Coming like a vet on some old vietnam shit   You can bet your bottom dollar that I'm on it      And it'll get even worse, word to god, it's the Wu   Coming through taking niggaz 'fore they're   Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone   Moving to your left      I came to represent and   Carve my name within your chest   You can come test, realize it's no contest, son   I'm the gun who won that old wild west      Quick on the draw, with my hands on the floor   Loving all those god damn funky rhymes galore   Check it 'cause I think not when it's hip hop like propa   Rhymes be the proof when I'm drinking ninety proof vodka      No OJ, no, no straw   When you give it to me, yeah   Give it to me raw I burn   Give it to me raw I burn      Chest hair      I don't need no chemical blow to pull no ho, no   All I need is chemical bank to pay her up   Is it real, son, let me know it's real, son   If it's really real, son, let me know it's      One, two three, four, kill one   Fuck it up and kill one   Fuck it up and kill one   Let me know it's real