(feat. DJ Rocraida)
[Verse 1]
Yeah nigga, Immortal Technique, metaphysics
The bling-bling era was cute but it's about to be done
I leave ya full of clipse 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 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 pocks
your 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

deep in the club toast to truth, reach for your glasses
I 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'
your better off asking Ariel Sharon for compassion
your better off begging for twenty points from a label
your 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
[Hook]