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