Blackout Songtext

Intro: Method Man: *All my people...!* Redman: It's Funk Doc Where da weed at, bitch?! I speed back wist, down to one-way from cops See thas' shit?! Believe thas' 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, D.V.D. round-sound, some herb round town And chances of ya'll leavin', round now Wait later, will make Funk page paper Date Raper wit' Juvenile 8th Graders Hit the High School at 187 Caesar When I bust ya'll need to back 4 acres Doc ya'll 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, 400 pounds! Chorus: Method Man & Redman GET UP, STAND UP, BACK UP, PUSH 'EM JUMP UP, ACT UP TO MAKE YOU FEEL IT! Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM Yo' BLACKOUT, SHOOT OUT, SMOKDE OUT MOVE OUT, EVEN KNOCK THE TOOTH OUT, TO MAKE YA'LL FEEL IT! Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM Brrrrr...STICK 'EM, HA-HAHA STICK 'EM Method Man: Now I'm the streettalkin', dogwalkin' 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 try to see central bookin' So til ya gon' stop lookin', now what you did last summer? So I started hookin', you past shookin' Over open can I ass-whoopin'? Ain't no tomorrows in the Method's Little Shop Of Horrors Go ask your father who the father from the Hill to Harbor You know tha saga, marijuana bustin' Goldschlaager With deadly medley, ya'll ain't ready for Shakwon and Reggie Don't even bother, the radio for back-up Alright then, ya man got slapped up extorted for his icin' Streetlife is triflin' *Body over here...!* Col' make me pull a Tyson and bite a nigga' ear Precisin', slicin' jugulars the cut-crew Ruggeder, Predator, Viking, etc. People's champ, niggaz be takin' all competetors Reachin' for the microphone, relax and light a bone Straight from the Catacomb The Children Of The Corn, that don't got a clue Prepare for desert storm! Chorus: I scored 1.1 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 brickwall with arsenic jaws Spit poison, got a gun permit draw Gundown at Sundown you keep score! This training-course and ya'll ain't fit On my crew-tombstone put 'We All Ain't Shit' Method Man: Yo', all you gonna be, wanna be When will you learn? Wanna be Doc and Meth? Gotta wait ya turn I spit a .41 Revolver on New Year's Eve With the mic in my hand I mutilate m.c.'s The most slept on since Rip Van Wink My shit stink with every element from A to Zinc So what you think? I'ma blackout on just one drink? You must be crazy! A little off the wall maybe Go get a shrink... Chorus