[Intro]

The day of the geechee is gone boy

And you goin' with it

Yeah, nigga

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, nigga!" 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 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

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!

[Chorus]

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, nigga, Industrial Revolution

[Verse 2]

I want 53 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 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

[Chorus]

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, nigga, Industrial Revolution