[Intro]
The day of the geechee is gone boy
And you goin' with it
Yeah, n***a
Immortal Technique
Metaphysics

[Verse 1]
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 want a percent of my ASCAP
Trying to control perspective like a acid flashback
But here's a quotable for every single record exec
"Get your fucking hands out my pocket, n***a!" like Malcolm X
But this ain’t a movie, I'm not a fan or a groupie
And I'm not the 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 one's as good as me—they just got better marketing schemes
I'll lead you to your own destruction like sparking a fiend
'Cause you got jealousy in your voice like Starscream
And that's the primary reason that I hate y'all faggots
I've been nice since n***as 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 tried jerking me, thinking they call shots
Offered me a deal and a blanket full of smallpox
You're all getting shot, you little fucking treacherous bitches!
[Hook]
This is the business, and y'all ain’t getting nothing for free
And if you devils play broke, then I'm taking your company
You could call it reparations or restitution
Lock and load, n***a
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, n***a, 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 your glasses
I'll burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you bastards
Innocent deep in a casket—Colombian fashion
Intoxicated off the flow like thug's passion
You motherfuckers will never get me to stop blasting
You're better off asking Ariel Sharon for compassion
You're better off begging for twenty points from a label
You're better off battling cancer under telephone cables
Technique chemically unstable, set to explode
Foretold by the dead sea scrolls written in code
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, 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 rotting for the roaches and crickets
[Hook]
This is the business, and y'all ain’t getting nothing for free
And if you devils play broke, then I'm taking your company
You could call it reparations or restitution
Lock and load, n***a
Industrial revolution