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Songs | Albums | Album Arts
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
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