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Red, Meth & B

This song is by Cypress Hill and appears on the album Stoned Raiders (2001).

Y'all ready for this?
Ha! I don't think so!
Yeah! Oh, listen to this!
We gonna come at ya!

Cypress Hill!
All my niggas say jump up, doc broke out the kennel
A dog on four paws spittin' out the window
Jump up! It ain't no need to fight
We may squeeze too tight, you gonna bleed tonight
I eat beans and rice, shit up a storm
I walk the streets with sharp (?) off my arms
Doctor Dolittle, lit off the bone
My bracelet like I raised it off the bomb
Home-grown, thick, dirty
My family few dudes who pack tools on survey
Jersey and house
Gun like an elephants mouth
Pull ya ambulance out
Ya whole team'll get bombarded
Ya on target, and bombed by some unsigned artists
We leave ya hair cut like a blind barber
Cut it, and gave you a line with fine markers
I won't leave till the job is done
Till the last prick nigga take ya wallet, RUN
Doc with the shotty and we both catch a body with Cypress Hill

(Chorus: B-Real)
We don't give a fuck, we living up till the day we die
You try to deal with us, but you got no blunts to get high
You won't be real with us, but ya reelin' us and you want to ride
You try to deal with us, but you got no blunts to get high

(Method Man)
Yo, yo, yo
Blunt smokin', half a bottle of remi open
You either holdin' or half-assed like Shimmy Coaling
I leave ya chokin' on them lollipop rhymes ya callin'
So hard, hell I crack the shell on ya candy coatin'
If the shoes fit like Alan I did
(?) Yo my new chicks a new bitch
Ya know if I can't eat, ya can't sleep
Plus I'm in denial, I just can't admit defeat
My mind is my glock, keep my third eye cocked
Bust mines off tops, leave the rappers nerve shocked
Now who's hot and who's not
I want them rocks and that money in ya two socks
Meth the mister, if crime is an art, then let me paint a picture
I'm gone, Kodak can't even frame the riddler
Gold realin', Meth, doc, Cypress Hiller
Whoever think they fuckin' with that, lets be realer

Take the back seat and smash beats
Smoke blunts through ya lungs and flex ya brain cells like athletes
When a track meets the rhymes on ya rap sheet
With a foot long (?) bong, look your collapsing, sicko
Thincho, on the brink of mental breakdown and shit you wouldn't think of
I spread it to Reggie, chances are better but deadly
You wanna be friendly on the get high Bentley
You twisted up, burnt out within seconds
'Cause you couldn't hang with the John Blaze methods
Bong hittin', doc spittin', shark bitten
Star stricken, clock clickin', stop shittin'
Inhale the smoke from the master's lungs
You wanna roll up, yo I'm the fastest one (ha!)
You wanna test with the sess, well first off
That shit is funny like Kid Rock with his shirt off

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