The two king's mashed up with the legend in a recollection of oldschool beats and raps. When rap was real.
Lyrics :
Method Man
Tical shittin' again, spittin' to win
Loaded guns, clip in the end, none sicker than him
Yes, indeed, I'm ill as any STD's or sex disease
These dirty rats want extra cheese
On that piece of the pie
Now ask me "How high?", I'll tell you "Reach for the sky!"
Blame the Crooked Letter I
That's my home, 23's wrapped in chrome
Not only snap on y'all niggas but I'll snap them bones
Clap your dome, make you leave that crack alone
You got the key to the city but the latch is on?
I gots it locked, bringin' the noise, bringin' the Funk
Doctor Spock, bringin' my boys, bringin' you lungs
Pop the Glock, but only if you feel this shit
Jack the Ripper; don't make me have to kill this bitch!
Back to get ya, put it in check, that's the Mista
Meth with his wood on your neck, shut your lips up
2Pac
There's, never a good day, cause in my hood they
let they AK's pump strays where the kids play
And every Halloween, check out the murder scene
Can't help but duplicate the violence seen on the screen
My homies dyin 'fore they get to see they birthdays
These is the worst days, sometimes it hurts to pray
And even God turned his back on the ghetto youth
I know that ain't the truth, sometimes I look for proof
I wonder if heaven got a ghetto, and if it does
Does it matter if you blood or you cuz
Remember how it was, the picnics and the parties in the projects
Small time drinkin gettin high with them armies
Just another knucklehead kid from the gutter
I'm dealin with the madness, raised by a single mother
I'm tryin to tell you when it's on
You gotta keep your head to the sky and be strong, most of all hold on
Method Man
Mista Method Man, puttin' in work, foot in the dirt
Like it's all good, roll through your hood, pushin' a hearse
I wish y'all would come around like Clint Eastwood
As if you're reppin' your hood in my neck of the woods
Street gorillas in the PJ's, grimy bitch
I wear the same shit for three days, find me lit
Blunt sparks, like Phillippi; fuck the he-say, the she-say!
Adjust the microphone, plus the cliché
Redman
Yo, call me the Bob Backlund
I'll break backs on hoes that look like Toni Braxton
Come run with these boney masked men
I'm out the gutter, I'm out to send your baby mother
Out for rubbers; we fuckin' tonight
Bitches wanna crowd around, how I'm cuffin' the mic
I'm a gorilla, leave a banana stuck in your pipe
‘Cause I'm a real block winner, the Doc inna
Bitch, one of my balls bigger than the Epcot Center!