I want fifty three million dollars for my collar stand
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 block 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 the classes
I burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you bastards
innocent deep in a casket, columbian fashion
intoxicated of the flow like thugs passion
you motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin'
your better off asking Ariel Sharon for compasion
your better off banging for twenty points for a label
your better off battling cancer under telephone cabels
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 in general and 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