[Redman]
It's Funk Doc
Where da weed at, bitch?!
I speed back wist, down to one-way from cops
See that shit?
Believe that shit!
Slaughter straight to camcorder
I'm too hot for T.V.
Backdraw water, my windpipes attached to
Project-ballers
You yell: "Turn the heat down!"
My voice, divi-di-round-sound
Some heard 'round town
And chances are y'all leavin', round now
Wait later; will make funk page paper
Date-raper with juvenile eighth-graders
Hit the high school at one-eight-seven Caesar
When I bust y'all
Need to back four acres
Doc, y'all, and that's my man, JabberJaw
The shitlist ready; who next to scratch off?
I'm from the underground; my soundlib
Platform shoes to bitches; four hundred pounds!
[Chorus]
Get up, stand up, back up, push up
Jump up, act up to make you feel it!
Brrrrr... stick 'em, ha ha ha stick 'em
Brrrrr... stick 'em, ha ha ha stick 'em
Yo, blackout, shoot out, smoked out, move out
Even knock ya tooth out to make y'all feel it!
Brrrrr... stick 'em, ha ha ha stick 'em
Brrrrr... stick 'em, ha ha ha stick 'em
[Meth]
Now I'm the street-talkin', dog walkin'
Approach me with extreme caution
Oh, now you forcin'?
My hand that rock yo' cradle
Often I'm hot-scorchin'
But stone cold like Steve Austin
If you smell what Tical cookin'
Ain't tryin' to see central bookin'
So till ya gon' stop lookin'
Know what you did last summer?
So I started hookin'
You past shookin'
Offer open can of ass-whoopin'
Ain't no tomorrows in the Method's Little Shop Of Horrors
Go ask your father who the father from the (Park) hill
To (Mariners) Harbor
You know tha saga, marijuana blunts, and Goldschlager
With deadly medley, y'all ain't ready for Shakwon and Reggie
Don't even bother to radio for back-up
Alright then, ya man got slapped up
Extorted for his icin'
Street life is triflin'
Body over here!
Nigga pull a Tyson and bite a nigga' ear
Precisin', slicin', juggerless the cut-crew
Ruggeder, predator, viking, etcetera
People's champ; niggaz be takin' off competitors
Reachin' for the microphone
Relax and light a bone
Straight from the Catacombs
The Children Of The Corn that don't got a clue
Prepare for desert storm!
[Chorus]
I scored one point one on my SAT
And still push a whip with a right and left AC
Gorilla, Big Dog; if my name get called
I'm behind the brick wall with arsenic jars
Spit poison
Got a gun permit; draw
Gundown at sundown
You keep score!
This training-course, and y'all ain't fit
On my crew-tombstone put: "We all ain't shit."
[Meth]
Yo, all you gonna be, want to be
When will you learn?
Want to be Doc and Meth?
Gotta wait ya turn
I spit a forty-one revolver on New Year's Eve
With the mic in my hand, I mutilate emcees
The most slept on since Rip Van Wink
My shit stink with every element from A to Zinc
So what you think?
I'm a blackout on just one drink?
You must be crazy!
A little off the wall maybe
Go get a shrink
[Chorus]