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