(he keeps talks to the class) Basically (fuck you) can't fuck with me
Verse One:
I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain Let's go inside my astral plane Find out my mental's based on instrumental Records hey so I could write monumental Methods I'm 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 just accept it In your Cross Colour, clothes you've crossed over Then got totally crossed out like Kris Kross Who da boss? Niggaz get tossed to the side And 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 the head piece protect it Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus Bustin at me punk now bust it Styles, I gets buckwild Method Man on some shit, pullin niggaz files I'm sick, insane crazy, Drivin Miss Daisy Out her fuckin mind now I got mine I'm Swayze
Chorus:
Is it real son, is it really real son Let me know it's real son, if it's really real Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one Want it raw deal son, if it's really real
Interlude: Booster
(The Booster!) And when I was a lil stereo I listened to some champion I always wondered Will now I be the numba one? Now you listen to de gargon And de gargon summary And any man dat come test me Me gwanna lick out dem brains
Verse Two:
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 it's a promise Comin from a vet on some old Vietnam shit Nigga you can bet your bottom dollar hey I bomb shit And it's gonna get even worse word to God It's the Wu comin through vickin niggaz for they garments Movin on your left, southpaw em it's the Meth Came to represent and carve my name in your chest You can come test realize you're no contest Son I'm 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 it's hip-hop like proper Rhymes be the proof when i'm drinkin 90 proof Huh vodka, no OJ, no straw When you give it to me yeah, give it to me raw I've learned that when you drink Absolut straight it burns Enough to give my chest hairs a perm I don't need a chemical blow to pull a hoe All I need is Chemical Bank to pay the mo
Outro:
Basically you're left with Meth-Tical {Northern spicy brown mustard hoes} coming with Tical And when you see it happen, you stick em
Puttin Def Jam's on my records, it's on I'll fuckin, slide you down a rusty razor-blade Into a pool of alcohol
(alright bring it back) I'll fuckin, I'll fuckin, cut your kneecaps off And make you kneel in some staircase piss
I'll fuckin (that nigga got his but cut) Cut your eyelids off (and served by the cube) And feed you nothing but sleeping pills (like a cool Cuban Out this motherfucker... he got a half a joint, and one eyebrow)
(Yeah and Rae got a shell-toe) You motherfucker (One shell-toe Adidas on his feet) (Sooooo????) So fuck the hoe Fuck the hoe Look at this nigga, this motherfuckin, shoe-lookin Baby spicy mustard, shoe-lookin!
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