Vakill Sweetest Way to Die Lyrics
[Verse I: Vakill]
The summer was 1987
I was king of graff
119th the ave
I had the south locked cleverly
I was stocked heavily
Shoe polish, Krylon
Hello my name is thick as my game was slicker
Didn't need a black book
I could lay out a piece off of memory
Half hour flat like it was ten of me
And still have time to flip my enemies names
If you was toy then that was penalty
From petty tags to full blown color crescendos
Blackbooks to scratch bombin' the bus window
I was addicted
But every time I'd stopped those flames rekindled
Cuz the fame's what I was mainly in for
One day my niggas gave me info
I was number one on the vandalism's guest list
And cops is restless
That's when the phone ring
It was five-0
Sorry wrong number
Shit it's about to be a long summer
Vakill: "Damn five-o, shit, I gotta think fast...
I gotta get the fuck outta here"
Some Ho: "You gonna answer the fucking phone or what?"
Vakill: "Naw, don't touch that shit, it's bill collector."
[VERSE II: Vakill]
The name I made in the streets is now a name
Too strong to mention
I was drawing the right shit
But now I'm drawing the wrong attention
It seems my graffiti most flaunted
Made me see P.D's most wanted
I'm most wanted in particular by this plain clothes cop
And writers for niggas he plague on
Last year he caught one of my peeps
And pushed him off the L platform
In front of a train
And now his legs gone
And I already got two strikes for the same shit
Three's a felony
That would make my mothers brain flip
In the judges eyes
I'm a youth of troubled caliber
Fuck community service
I'll do a couple calendars
I ain't built for that
I ain't got that kinda frame god
My brain scarred visioning
That time behind the same bars
Paged Memo ass twice
Shit I wish this fool call
(Phone rings)"What up VAK?"
Meet me at the pool hall
Vakill: "Yo call your shot nigga"
HOMIE: "I got yellow on the corner dude, whats up with this taggin' bullshit dude?"
Vakill: "I'm sayin' man, I ain't sweatin' that shit, they ain't gonna catch me alive"
Homie: "Dude, you ain't making no money off of that punk shit dude"
Vakill: "It ain't about the dough, its about hip hop yo, its hip hop"
Homie: "Dude your looking like shit with paint chips all over your fucking legs"
Vakill: "It's alright though, I'm too clever, they'll never get me...."
[VERSE III: Vakill]
Quarter after nine
While creepin' home
It grabs my mind
I'm facing ten years of math combined
And guaranteed to serve half the time
Thats five years too many
For a supposedly graff
Design path to crime
I need to lay low
And what would do me some good
Is a couple days of street separation
I'm suffering from sleep deprivation
Got me waking up sweatin'
In deep perspiration
I lit up a bag of boon
That's when it hit me starin'
As the cloud shaped weed smoke
And the aerosol loomed
I'mma do the illest piece
Then close every window in the room
Till I'm consumed by the aerosol fumes
Maybe jail got me suicidal
Or maybe this will make me an
A underground legend
A sewer idol
No regrets and no sad goodbyes
Shit I'd rather it be this way
This was the sweetest way