The Message & The Money

Before we go any further
I would like to send a message
To all the underground MCs out there, working hard
The time has come to realize your net worth in the market
And stop being a fucking commodity
And if you didn't understand what I just said
Then you already waiting to get fucked

For example, a lot of these promoters are doing showcases
Throwing events, and not even paying the workhorses
They tryna get us to rock for the love of hiphop or rock for the exposure
Now look, man, I don't mind doing a guest spot for my peeps
Or, or, or doing a benefit show, but don't lie to me, pussy
'Cause I find out I'm paying your light bill, I'm fucking you up, nigga

Besides, you ain't doing this for the love, you ain't doing it for the exposure
You charging up to 10$ at the door, and you ain't tryna give me shit?
So wait a minute
You want me to go shopping, cook the food, and put it in front of you
But you won't let me sit down and eat with you? The fuck is that?
Niggas need to start playing their position, man

Just 'cause you throw a party
A hosting event, or an open mic or a showcase, or a battle
That don't make you important at all
Without me and everybody like me out there
You ain't nothing but a good idea, motherfucker
So stay in your place

And to all these bitch-ass saronayas
Who are too lazy to come up with a way to sell records
That they keep recycling marketing schemes and imagery
C'mon, there's a market for everything man
There's a market for pet psychologists, nigga
There is a market for twisted, shit, fetish videos
For nipplerings, for river-dancing, for chocolate cupboard roaches
But you can't find one for cultured hardcore reality and hip-hop?

People like you; the house nigga executives
And them rich motherfuckers that own you
You the motherfucking machine, man
You and all these niggas talking about the same shit
With the same flow over the same candy-ass beats
But I refuse to feed the machine

And I'm not giving any magazine money
So maybe my album won't get five mics, or double XLs, or five discs
Whatever man, fuck it
But then again, you don't own me, and none of you niggas ever will
If I'm feeling what you fight for, I'm rolling with you to the end
But if not, then fuck you

And the more that MCs, producers, DJs
And independent labels start to grasp the conceptuality
Of what their contribution to the business of hip-hop is
Rather than just the music, the more the industry will be forced to change
Oh, uh, and one last thing

You don't have to agree with everything I said
But don't ever be condescending to me
Picking up your wack ass friends that rhyme and being like
"Oh yeah, Immortal Technique, he's alright"
No, nigga, your mom's pussy, that's alright, okay
Your people's getting shot dead in the street, that's alright
I'm the motherfucking Immortal Technique, nigga
The message and the money, and you ain't got either, remember that
Punk ass motherfucker

See, the Black race can't afford you no more
Oh, there used to be a time we'd see somebody like you singin'
Clownin', yassuh-bossin', and we wouldn't do anything
Folks liked that, you were good, homey kind of nigga
When they needed somebody to mistreat
Call a name or two, they paraded you
Reminded them of the good old days
Not no more