Bring The Pain - Method Man, The Chemical Brothers

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, based on instrumental

Records, hey, so I can write monumental

Methods, I’m not the King

But niggas 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 Colour clothes, you’ve crossed over

Then got Totally Krossed Out and Kris Krossed

Who da boss?

Niggas 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, niggas want the ruckus

Bustin' at me, bruh, now bust it

Styles, I gets buckwild

Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggas files

I’m sick, insane, crazy, driving Miss Daisy (yeah)

Out her fucking mind, now I got mine, I’m Swayze (yeah)

Is it real, son, is it really real, son?

(yeah)

Let me know it’s real, son, if it’s really real (what, yeah)

Something I could feel, son, load it up and kill one (what, uhh)

Want it raw deal, son, if it’s really real—yeah—, uh

When I was a likle stereo (Stereo)

I listen to some Cham-pi-on (Champion)

I always wonda (wondered)

When I will be di numba one (Ticaaal! hahaha)

And now yuh listen to di Gorgon (Gorgon)

And a Gorgon sound a Rein

An' any jump and come tes' mi (test me)

Mi a-go lick out dem brain (it's like that)

Brothers want to hang with the Meth, bring the rope

The only way you’ll hang is by the neck, Nigga Bolt

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 stickin' niggas for they garments

Movin' on your left, southpaw, Mr. 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, ayy, give it to me raw

I’ve learned when you drink Absolut straight it burns

Enough to give my chest hairs a perm

I don’t need no chemical blow to pull a ho

All I need is Chemical Bank to pay da mo'

What, basically that, Meth-Tical, '94 style

Word up, we be hazardous

Northern spicy brown mustard hoes

We have to stick you (horn)

Is it real, son, is it really real, son?

(motherfucker)

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 at some staircase, piss

I’ll fuckin' cut your eyelids off

And feed you nuthin' but sleepin' pills

Get yours, motherfucker

So—So fuck the ho, fuck the ho

Look at this nigga, this motherfucker, shit