Sweetest Way to Die - Vakill, Memorizer

The summer was 1987

I was king of graff

Wild hundreds

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

Upside down

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

(phone ringing)

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.»

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

Named Agorn

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…»

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

Incarcerated nightmares

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

To die…