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Method Man » 4:20
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	[Intro: RZA (Method Man)] Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it (roll it up niggaz) Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it (4:20, y'all, it's time, it's time) Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it (it's been a long time for this man Niggaz been sleeping on the kid, man, everybody got some sideway shit to say) Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it (Carlo! Know what I'm saying, man? Yeah) (Method Man:) Fast or slow mo, oh no, Meth done made a killing Call the po-po, oh niggaz is squealing, oh, y'all ain't feeling Niggaz no more, the bigger they are, harder they go though Good pussy put a hump in my back like Quasimoto Hah, my sex ain't homo, season vet, hold the adobo Got rappers on that low carb diet, y'all can't get no dough I keep a low pro, file, excuse me as I get smoked out Put hands on these niggaz, then put the roach out Go head, I'm wishing you would, ask if it's good Man, this Tarzan shit in the woods, my shit is hood, bitch That means I'm hood rich, telling you lies Straight out the pull-pit, it's like Merrill Lynch I'm on that bullshit Real spit, money come first, and even worse You need all your toes & fingers to count up what I'm worth, trick So when I blow a smoke cloud in your face, just take a hint Dick, you crowding my space, it's Mr. Meth, pa (Chorus: Carlton Fisk) It's 4:20, roll up, nigga getting smo-ked out No seeds, California weed have you choked out No doubt, roll up, which rims spoked out 4:20 mean you either roll up or roll out (RZA:) Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it Roll that shit, light that shit, smoke it (Method Man:) So on and so on, I flow on Power to our people, get your smoke on And I'm so gone, off, that sour diesel Hard to hold on, but hold on, it's like I'm Pretty Toney With that robe, got terrorist shook, because I'm so bomb The hood, put, me in position, I'm in the kitchen With that cook book, the service I'm giving, birds they vision Not a good look, told ya my nigga, Tical deliver Hook or crook, lots of asses to kick, wish I had a bigger foot Yeah, taking it there, hating who care Y'all stay out my mental, I got killas waiting in here To get you, as I sharpen my pencils, tear apart instrumentals Fuck it, y'all niggaz is pussy, so is the dick that sent you RZA, we done it again, Co-D occassion Here's to short skirts and Ol' Dirt McGirt, okay, then Let's get it popping, like it ain't nothing to get it popping The big and rotten's the city, too good to be forgotten (Chorus x2) (Streetlife:) The rap game won't like me You can tell that a nigga is shiesty If I die, my second born'll be like me Slide dick to your wifey Never know your baby boy just might be Quick to rob a jack, he's so icey, stay dressed to kill From the Hill, never ran, never will Attitude, like, fuck you still, I see you missing the point This is not a rap song, you get clapped on Bullets break the bone, like the joint, call you out your name Disrespect ya moms, spit on your dame Go public, then, shit on your fame, you overlooking the fact Where you from, is where we at And y'all don't want no, parts, in that that Caught your verse for sale, but real niggaz don't shoot & tell We'd rather do the time and rot in the cell (Carlton Fisk:) The inner outer state, bi-coastal smoker Inhale, Cali piff with a swift of glaucoma Black jeans, black Timbs, black Benz roaster Smoke rise, out the sun roof when I roll up Verrazano, with no relation to Gravano Carlo, shots are hollow, still cop a bottle And pour some out, moment of silence, then I swallow I'm still alive, and still the sun'll come out tomorrow Shine shine shine, and grind, cuz it's money on my mind And I'm moving like my life is on the line For the bullshit, I really got no time, a full clip Really gon' let ya niggaz know what's on my mind When ya getting out of line, have them choppers lit up You won't need a camera phone to get the picture Chalk down, tape around, body bag zipped up Carlo Verrazano, you can call me mister (Chorus)
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