Method Man

The Great White Hype soundtrack

  hip-hop  rap  wu-tang  hip hop  new york
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Текст песни Method Man - The Great White Hype soundtrack

Method Man - The Great White Hype soundtrack слова песни

(he keeps talks to the class)Basically (fuck you) can`t fuck with meVerse One:I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brainLet`s go inside my astral planeFind out my mental`s based on instrumentalrecords hey, so I could write monumentalMethods, I`m not the KingBut niggaz is decaf I stick em for the creamcheck it, just how deep can shit getDeep as the abyss and brothers is mad just accept itIn your Cross Colour, clothes you`ve crossed overThen got totally crossed out like Kris KrossWho da boss? Niggaz get tossed to the sideand I`m the dark side of the forceOf course it`s the Method, Man from the Wu-Tang ClanI be hectic, and coming for the head piece protect itFuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckusbustin at me punk now bust itStyles, I gets buckwildMethod Man on some shit, pullin niggaz filesI`m sick, insane crazy, Drivin Miss Daisyout her fuckin mind now I got mine I`m SwayzeChorus:Is it real son, is it really real sonLet me know it`s real son, if it`s really realSomething I could feel son, load it up and kill oneWant it raw deal son, if it`s really realInterlude: Booster(The Booster!)And when I was a lil stereoI listened to some championI always wonderedWill now I be the numba one?Now you listen to de gargonAnd de gargon summaryAnd any man dat come test meMe gwanna lick out dem brainsVerse Two:Brothers want to hang with the Meth bring the ropethe only way you hang is by the neck nigga pokeoff the set comin to your projectsTake it as a threat, better yet it`s a promiseComin from a vet on some old Vietnam shitNigga you can bet your bottom dollar hey I bomb shitAnd it`s gonna get even worse word to GodIt`s the Wu comin through vickin niggaz for they garmentsMovin on your left, southpaw em it`s the MethCame to represent and carve my name in your chestYou can come test realize you`re no contestSon I`m the gun that won that old Wild WestQuick on the draw with my hands on the fournine three eleven with the rugged rhymes galoreCheck it cause I think not when it`s hip-hop like properRhymes be the proof when i`m drinkin 90 proofHuh vodka, no OJ, no strawWhen you give it to me yeah, give it to me rawI`ve learned that when you drink Absolut straight it burnsEnough to give my chest hairs a permI don`t need a chemical blow to pull a hoeAll I need is Chemical Bank to pay the moOutro:Basically you`re left with Meth-Tical{Northern spicy brown mustard hoes} coming with Ticaland when you see it happen, you stick emPuttin Def Jam`s on my records, it`s onI`ll fuckin, slide you down a rusty razor-bladeinto a pool of alcohol(alright bring it back)I`ll fuckin, I`ll fuckin, cut your kneecaps offand make you kneel in some staircase pissI`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 Cubanout 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 hoeFuck the hoeLook at this nigga, this motherfuckin, shoe-lookinBaby spicy mustard, shoe-lookin!

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