Blackout Lyrics - Blackout! (with Redman) - Method Man

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! 

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Chorus: Meth & Red 

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, SMOKED 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 

Photos 

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' 

Meth 

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