Industrial Revolution Lyrics - Revolutionary, Vol. 2 - Immortal Technique

[Verse 1] 

Yeah nigga, Immortal Technique, metaphysics 

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