[Intro:]
    Takin it from the top?
  Tippy? Tippy?
    How High?....
  The Ultimate High....
    [Verse One: Method Man]
    Scuse me as I kiss the sky
  Sing a song of six pence, a pocet full a rye
  Who the fuck wanna die for their culture
  Stalk the dead body like a vulture
  Tical get, HMMM
  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
    [Verse Two: Redman]
    While the planets and the stars and the moons collapse
  When I raise my trigga finga all yall niggaz hit the decks!
  Cause aint 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
    [Verse Three: Method Man]
    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 dont need no rap tour
  Id rather kick the facts and catch you with the rap-ture
  More than you bargained for
  Tical, that stays open like an all nite 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 existance, M-E-T
  Aint no use for resistance, H-O-D
    [Verse Four: Redman]
    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 dont stop till I get enough
  Your shit broke down, light your flare
  Since the darkside 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 (Tical) hit me now
  Bitches use to play me now they cant forget me now
  Forget me not, I rock the spot, check glock
  Empty off a lickin off a hip hop
  Fuck the billboard, Im a bullet on my block
  How you dope when you payed for your billboard spot?
    [Chorus:]
    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
    [Verse Five: Method Man]
    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 dont need yo dirt, we, we got our fuckin own
  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, Im the second one to hit it
  
  [Verse Six: Redman]
    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 Smiff and Wess
  Who clicks the best
  Punks take a sip and test
  Who split your vest
  The funk phenomenon
  Im 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 Bit-ches
  Hittin switches, Twistin wigs with
  Fat radical mathematical type scriptures
  I dig up in your planets like Diga,
  Boo, scared you, blew you to smithe-reens
  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)