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Mothafucka's made me out of self-righteous hatred. And now you got yourself a virus, stuck in the matrix. A suicide bomber, strapped up ready to blow, lethal injection, strapped down, ready to go. Don't you understand they'll never let me live out in peace? Concrete jungle, guerrilla war out in the streets. Nat Turner with the sickle, pitchfork and machete. The end of the world, mothafucka, you not ready. My people are so hungry they'll attack without reason, like a fucking dog ripping off the hand that feeds him. Immortal Technique is treason to the Patriot Act, so come and get me muthafucka, cause I'm not coming back. (en) |
