This is a song about "Your om"

Of your image, your touch, your laugh

It's odd that they say that the crack kill blacks

Fuck your prison, fuck your life

... club, we'll be actin' real nice

That's your soul along with your principles and your morals

Out in the district they selling water and buying pistols

Becoming someone you don't recognize

Ill cut your thtroat, chop your head and pluck out your eyes,

And when we on the road, bitches follow the tour bus

Freezing your nose, your eyes, your corneas,

Fuck your criteria

Oh yeah, pops got a visa

Your eyes it's my paradise, your

Woodstock though, couple bands on the floor