The bling-bling era was cute but it's about to be done I leave ya 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 want a 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 to 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 cuz you got jealousy in ya voice like star scream and that's the primary reason that I hate ya'll faggots I've been nice since niggaz 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 A&R's try jerking me thinking they call shots offered me a deal and a blanket full of small pox you're all getting shot, you little fucking treacherous 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 calloused hands 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 a grave i was made by revolution to speak to the masses deep in the club toast to truth, reach for your glasses I'll burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you bastards innocent deep in a casket, Colombian fashion intoxicated of the flow like thugs passion you motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin' you better off asking Ariel Sharon for compassion you better off begging for twenty points from a label you better off battling cancer under telephone cables 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 cuz 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 a general, that 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
@smartbot_tg_bot
