The bling-bling era was cute but it's about to be done I leave you full of clips like the moon blocking the sun my metaphors are dirty like herpes but harder to catch like an escape tunnel in prison I started from scratch and now these parasites wanna percent of my ASCAP trying to control perspective like an acid flashback but here's a quotable for every single record exec get your fucking hands out my pocket nigga like Malcolm X
but this ain't a movie, I'm not a fan or a groupie and I'm not that type of cat, you can afford to miss if you shoot me curse the heavens and laugh when the sky electrocutes me Immortal Technique stuck in your thoughts darkening dreams no ones as good as good as me, they just got better marketing schemes I leave ya to your own destruction like sparking a fiend 'cause you got jealousy in ya voice like star scream and that's the primary reason that I hate yall faggots I've been nice since niggas got killed over 8-ball jackets and Reebok Pumps that didn't do shit for the sneaker I'm a heatseaker with features that'll reach through the speaker and murder counter revolutionaries personally break a thermometer and force feed his kids mercury ANR's try jerking me thinking they call shots offered me a deal and a blanket full of small pox your all getting shot, you little fucking trecherous bitches
[Hook] This is the business, and ya'll ain't getting nothing for free and if you devils play broke, then I'm taking your company you can call it reparations or restitution lock and load nigga, industrial revolution
[Verse 2] I want fifty three million dollars for my collar stand like the Bush administration gave to the Taliban and fuck packing grams nigga, learn to speak and behave you wanna spend twenty years as a government slave two million people in prison keep the government paid stuck in a six by eight cell alive in the grave i was made by revolution to speak to the masses deep in the club toast the truth, reach for the glasses I burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you bastards innocent deep in a casket, columbian fashion intoxicated of the flow like thugs passion you motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin' your better off asking Ariel Sharon for compasion your better off begging for twenty points for a label your better off battling cancer under telephone cabels Technique chemically unstable, set to explode foretold by the dead sea scrolls written in codes so if your message ain't shit, fuck the records you sold 'cause if you go platinum, it's got nothing to do with luck it just means that a million people are stupid as fuck stuck in the underground in general and rose to the limit without distribution managers, a deal, or a gimmick Revolutionary Volume 2, murder the critics and leave your fucking body rotten for the roaches and crickets
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