Bring The Pain Lyrics - Soundtrack Exclusives & Rarities - Method Man

Basically, can't fuck with me 

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 can 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 fish accept it 

In your cross color, clothes you've crossed over 

Then got totally krossed out and 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 comin' for the head piece protect it 

Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus 

Bustin' at me brush, now bust it 

Styles, I gets buck wild 

Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggaz files 

I'm sick, insane, crazy, drivin' Miss Daisy 

Out her fuckin' mind now I got Martin Swayze 

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 

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And when I was a lil' stereo 

(Stereo) 

I listened to some champion 

(Champion) 

I always wondered 

(Wondered) 

Will now I be the numba one? 

(Tical! Hahaha) 

Now you listen to de gargon 

(Gargon!) 

And de gargon summary 

And any man dat come test me 

(Test me) 

Me gwanna lick out dem brains 

(It's like that) 

Photos 

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 sickin' 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 this hip-hops like proper 

Rhymes be the proof while I'm drinkin' 90 proof 

Huh vodka, no OJ, no straw, 

when you give it to me aiy, give it to me raw 

I've learned when you drink absolute 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 da mo' 

What, basically that, Meth-Tical, ninety-four style 

Word up we be hazardous car crashing, horn passing me 

Northern spicy brown mustard hoes 

We have to stick you 

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 

I'll fuckin', I'll fuckin' cut your kneecaps off 

And make you kneel in some staircase piss 

I'll fuckin', cut your eyelids off 

And feed you nuthin' but sleepin' pills 

You motherfuckers 

So fuck the hoe 

(So) 

Fuck the hoe