Industrial Revolution
Yeah nigga, Immortal Technique, metaphysics
The bling-bling era was cute but it's about to be doneI leave ya full of clips like the moon blocking the sunMy metaphors are dirty like herpes but harder to catchLike an escape tunnel in prison I started from scratchAnd now these parasites wanna percent of my ASCAPTrying to control perspective like an acid flashbackBut here's a quotable for every single record execGet your fucking hands out my pocket, nigga, like Malcolm XBut this ain't a movie, I'm not a fan or a groupieAnd I'm not that type of cat, you can afford to miss if you shoot meCurse to heavens and laugh when the sky electrocutes meImmortal Technique stuck in your thoughts darkening dreamsNo one's as good as me, they just got better marketing schemesI leave ya to your own destruction like sparking a fiend'Cause you got jealousy in ya voice like StarscreamAnd that's the primary reason that I hate ya, faggotsI've been nice since niggaz got killed over 8 Ball jacketsAnd Reebok Pumps that didn't do shit for the sneakerI'm a heat-seeker with features that'll reach through the speakerAnd murder counter-revolutionaries personallyBreak a thermometer and force feed his kids mercuryANR's tribe jerking me thinking they call shotsOffered me a deal and a blanket full of small pocksYou're all getting shot, you little fucking treacherous bitches
[hook]This is the business, and y'all ain't getting nothing for freeAnd if you devils play broke, then I'm taking your companyYou can call it reparations or restitutionLock and load nigga, industrial revolution
I want fifty three million dollars for my collar standLike the Bush administration gave to the TalibanAnd fuck packing grams, nigga, learn to speak and behaveYou wanna spend twenty years as a government slaveTwo million people in prison keep the government paidStuck in a six block eight cell alive in the graveI was made by revolution to speak to the massesDeep in the club toast the truth, reach for the classesI burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you, bastardsInnocent deep in a casket, Columbian fashionIntoxicated of the flow like Thug's PassionYou motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin'You're better off asking Ariel Sharon for compassionYou're better off banging for twenty points for a labelYou're better off battling cancer under telephone cabelsTechnique chemically unstable, set to explodeForetold by the dead sea scrolls written in codesSo if your message ain't shit, fuck the records you sold'Cause if you go platinum, it's got nothing to do with luckIt just means that a million people are stupid as fuckStuck in the underground in general and rose to the limitWithout distribution managers, a deal, or a gimmickRevolutionary Volume 2 murder the criticsAnd leave your fucking body rotten for the roaches and crickets
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