Basically (fuck you) can't fuck with me

 Verse One:

 I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain
 Let's go inside my astral plane
 Find out my mental's based on instrumental
 records hey  so I could write monumental
 Methods  I'm not the King
 But niggaz is decaf I stick em for the cream
 check it  just how deep can shit get
 Deep as the abyss and brothers is mad just accept it
 In your Cross Colour, clothes you've crossed over
 Then got totally crossed out like Kris Kross
 Who da boss? Niggaz 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 coming for the head piece protect it
 Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus
 bustin at me punk now bust it
 Styles, I gets buckwild
 Method Man on some shit, pullin niggaz files
 I'm sick, insane crazy, Drivin Miss Daisy
 out her fuckin mind now I got mine I'm Swayze

 Chorus:

 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

 Interlude: Booster

 (The Booster!)
 And when I was a lil stereo
 I listened to some champion
 I always wondered
 Will now I be the numba one?
 Now you listen to de gargon
 And de gargon summary
 And any man dat come test me
 Me gwanna lick out dem brains

 Verse Two:

 Brothers want to hang with the Meth bring the rope
 the only way you hang is by the neck nigga poke
 off the 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 vickin niggaz for they garments
 Movin on your left, southpaw em it's the 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 it's hip-hop like proper
 Rhymes be the proof when i'm drinkin 90 proof
 Huh vodka, no OJ, no straw
 When you give it to me yeah, 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 hoe
 All I need is Chemical Bank to pay the mo

 Outro:

 Basically you're left with Meth-Tical
 {Northern spicy brown mustard hoes} coming with Tical
 and when you see it happen, you stick em

 Puttin Def Jam's on my records, it's on
 I'll fuckin, slide you down a rusty razor-blade
 into a pool of alcohol

 (alright bring it back)
 I'll fuckin, I'll fuckin, cut your kneecaps off
 and make you kneel in some staircase piss

 I'll fuckin (that nigga got his but cut)
 cut your eyelids off (and served by the cube)
 and feed you nothing but sleeping pills (like a cool Cuban
 out this motherfucker... he got a half a joint, and one eyebrow)

 (Yeah and Rae got a shell-toe)
 You motherfucker
 (One shell-toe Adidas on his feet)
 (Sooooo????) So fuck the hoe
 Fuck the hoe
 Look at this nigga, this motherfuckin, shoe-lookin
 Baby spicy mustard, shoe-lookin