| The bling-bling era was cute but it’s about to be done
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| I leave ya full of clipse like the moon blocking the sun
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| my metaphors are dirty like herpes but harder to catch
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| like an escape tunnel in prison I started from scratch
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| and now these parasites wanna prosenna my asscap
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| trying to control perspective like an acid flashback
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| but here’s a quotable for every single record exec
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| 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
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| 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
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| no ones as good as good as me, they just got better marketing schemes
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| I leave ya to your own destruction like sparking a fiend
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| cuz you got jealousy in ya voice like star scream
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| and that’s the primary reason that I hate ya faggots
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| I’ve been nice since niggaz got killed over 8-ball jackets
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| and Reebok Pumps that didn’t do shit for the sneaker
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| I’m a heatseaker with features that’ll reach through the speaker
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| and murder counter revolutionaries personally
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| break a thermometer and force feed his kids mercury
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| ANR’s tribe jerking me thinking they call shots
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| offered me a deal and a blanket full of small pocks
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| your all getting shot, you little fucking tregerous bitches
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| This is the business, and ya’ll ain’t getting nothing for free
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| and if you devils play broke, then I’m taking your company
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| you can call it reparations or restitution
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| lock and load nigga, industrial revolution
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| I want fifty three million dollars for my collar stand
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| like the Bush administration gave to the Taliban
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| and fuck packing grams nigga, learn to speak and behave
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| you wanna spend twenty years as a government slave
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| two million people in prison keep the government paid
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| stuck in a six block eight cell alive in the grave
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| i was made by revolution to speak to the masses
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| deep in the club toast the truth, reach for the classes
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| I burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you bastards
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| innocent deep in a casket, columbian fashion
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| intoxicated of the flow like thugs passion
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| you motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin'
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| your better off asking Ariel Sharon for compasion
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| your better off banging for twenty points for a label
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| your better off battling cancer under telephone cabels
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| Technique chemically unstable, set to explode
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| foretold by the dead sea scrolls written in codes
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| so if your message ain’t shit, fuck the records you sold
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| cuz if you go platinum, it’s got nothing to do with luck
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| it just means that a million people are stupid as fuck
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| stuck in the underground in general and rose to the limit
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| without distribution managers, a deal, or a gimmick
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| Revolutionary Volume 2, murder the critics
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| and leave your fucking body rotten for the roaches and crickets |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Industrial Revolution, artist - Immortal Technique. Album song Revolutionary Vol. 2, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп