Lyrics:

Basically, cant fuck with me

I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain
Lets go inside my astral plane
Find out my mentals based on instrumental
Records hey, so I can write monumental

Methods, Im not the king
But niggaz is decaf I stick em for the cream
Check it, just how deep can shit get
Deep as the abyss and brothers is mad fish accept it

In your cross color, clothes youve crossed over
Then got totally krossed out and Kris Kross
Who da boss? Niggaz get tossed to the side
And Im the dark side of the force

Of course its the Method Man from the Wu-Tang Clan
I be hectic and comin for the head piece protect it
Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus
Bustin at me brush, now bust it

Styles, I gets buck wild
Method Man on some shit, pullin niggaz files
Im sick, insane, crazy, drivin Miss Daisy
Out her fuckin mind now I got Martin Swayze

Is it real son, is it really real son?
Let me know its real son, if its really real
Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one
Want it raw deal son, if its really real

And when I was a lil stereo
(Stereo)
I listened to some champion
(Champion)
I always wondered
(Wondered)
Will now I be the numba one?
(Tical! Hahaha)

Now you listen to de gargon
(Gargon!)
And de gargon summary
And any man dat come test me
(Test me)
Me gwanna lick out dem brains
(Its like that)

Brothers want to hang with the Meth bring the rope
The only way you hang is by the neck nigga poke
Off the set comin to your projects
Take it as a threat, better yet its a promise

Comin from a vet on some old Vietnam shit
Nigga you can bet your bottom dollar hey I bomb shit
And its gonna get even worse word to God
Its the Wu comin through sickin niggaz for they garments

Movin on your left, southpaw em its the Meth
Came to represent and carve my name in your chest
You can come test realize youre no contest
Son, Im the gun that won that old Wild West

Quick on the draw with my hands on the four
Nine three eleven with the rugged rhymes galore
Check it cause I think not when this hip-hops like proper
Rhymes be the proof while Im drinkin 90 proof

Huh vodka, no OJ, no straw, when you give it to me aiy, give it to me raw
Ive learned when you drink absolute straight it burns
Enough to give my chest hairs a perm
I dont need a chemical blow to pull a hoe
All I need is chemical bank to pay da mo

What, basically that, Meth-Tical, ninety-four style
Word up we be hazardous car crashing, horn passing me
Northern spicy brown mustard hoes
We have to stick you

Is it real son, is it really real son?
Let me know its real son, if its really real
Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one
Want it raw deal son, if its really real

Ill fuckin, Ill fuckin cut your kneecaps off
And make you kneel in some staircase piss
Ill fuckin, cut your eyelids off
And feed you nuthin but sleepin pills
You motherfuckers
So fuck the hoe
(So)
Fuck the hoe