Lyrics
Word up, man
Fat caps and shit
Pilots and shit
Griffins, rustoleum
Homemades
Lay-ups, the whole shit man
For all my real graff niggas, son. Them niggas know what it is, niggas out
night, know what im saying? Gettin' that tag on and shit. Yo
I remenisce days wearin' all black, paint in my knapsack
Summer squash yellow callin' me, I had to rack that
Freaking for an inside, perfectly outlined
Laid make the strip shine, nigga I take mine
Tags on the J-Line, E-train tunnels
Flat black, got stacks, fat caps, by bundles it was like that
Take my spot, I’ll be right back
Handstyles are major, stomp blocks in danger, my rusto’s in labor about to give
birth to flavor
Vandal Squad cops play blocks in a LeSabre
Tryna catch niggas creatin' their name lookin' for fame
Sometimes you get locked, it’s just part of the game
Anti-freeze in my Griffin I was makin' a stain
First car to the back of the train, simple and plain
Wreckin' rack spots shuttin' down leavin' them slain
Real talk son, graff on the brain shit was insane Nah’mean?
I got 25 cans in my knapsack
Hands in the air
Wanna daydream while im writing graffiti
I spent hours writin' graffiti
I spent hours… puttin' up my name in a fat cap
Yo I can still smell the paint in the air, like I was there
I used to ride the 7 train way back and just stare
At the colors on the roof, pale yellow was the shit
Everybody wildin' out, anybody was a vic
Pilot marker in my pocket, everything was gettin' hit
When you come through correct, your whole style get bit
Triple outline, takin' my time to look crisp
Can control, crushin' cops straight stomp, we don’t miss
Four fingertips, street krylons like 4 clips
Kill something spray and pass the weapon, keep steppin'
Niggas know my style still reppin' no question
I drop a lot of truth when I rhyme so pay attention
In New York, we make walls talk free expression
Beyond comprehension of the regular
Paint in my pocket, fat cap in my sneaker late night on a mission for self,
I got the fever
Adrenaline rushin' as I see a transit cop comin'
Now I start runnin', hot pursuit, drop the paint, hop the roof, slipped, fell
Cut myself, my left hand leakin'
I’m not tryna go to Central Bookings for the weekend
I’m moving like a marathon winner never a quitter
Pigs chasing me for bullshit I’m wondering why they bitter
So I go left, go right, go left, empty Ave, run around the corner and I hopped
into a cab
Now I’m movin', got away, close call still breathin'
Shirt ripped, scuffed kicks, out of shape, heavy breathing
Not discouraged by my mission, never that I’m still proceeding
Doin' spots, like a heathen
Monday, to the weekend
Peace to all the writers catchin' tags every evening
Spots steamin' hot gleaming permy walls on forever shit
Drop lines for 7 million avid rebel terrorists
One love, coming from a spraypaint specialist, you heard?
