Industrial Revolution (Dirty) Lyrics
| Song | Industrial Revolution (Dirty) |
| Artist | Immortal Technique |
| Album | Industrial Revolution |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| (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] |
| feat. DJ Rocraida | |
| Verse 1 | |
| Yeah nigga, Immortal Technique, metaphysics | |
| The blingbling 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 8ball 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 |
| feat. DJ Rocraida | |
| Verse 1 | |
| Yeah nigga, Immortal Technique, metaphysics | |
| The blingbling 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 8ball 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 |
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