Basically, can't fuck with me

I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain
Let's go inside my astral plane
Find out my mental, based on instrumental
Records, hey, so I can write monumental
Methods, I'm not the King
But niggas 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 Colour clothes, you've crossed over
Then got Totally Krossed Out and Kris Kross
Who the boss? Niggas 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 comin' for the head piece, protect it
Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggas want the ruckus
Bustin' at me, bruh, now bust it
Styles, I gets buckwild
Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggas files
I'm sick, insane, crazy, driving Miss Daisy
Out her fuckin' mind now I got mine, I'm Swayze

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, yeah, uh

And when I was a little stereo (stereo)
I listened to some Champion (Champion)
I always wondered (wondered)
When I will be the number one (Tical)
Now you listen to the Gorgon (Gorgon)
And the Gorgon sound a Rein
And any jump and come test me (test me)
Mi ah go lick out them brains

Brothers want to hang with the Meth, bring the rope
The only way you hang is by the neck
Nigga, bold off 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, sickin niggas for they garments
Movin' on your left, southpaw, Mr. 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 this hip hops like proper
Rhymes be the proof while I'm drinkin' 90 proof
Huh, vodka, no OJ, no straw
When you give it to me, ayy, 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 ho
All I need is Chemical Bank to pay the roll

What, basically that, Meth-Tical, '94 style
Word up, we be hazardous
We have to stick you

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

I'll fuckin', I'll fuckin' cut your kneecaps off
And make you kneel in some staircase piss

I'll fuckin', cut your eyelids off
And feed you nothin' but sleeping pills

Typical fucker
So fuck the ho
Fuck the ho
(Look at this nigga, this motherfuckin')

Copyright: REACH MUSIC PUBLISHING, Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Carlton Douglas Ridenhour, Clifford Smith, Gary J. Rinaldo, James Henry III Boxley, Robert F. Diggs