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Artist: Royce Da 5'9" f/ Conway, Styles P, Westside Gunn
Album:  Tabernacle: Trust the Shooter
Song:   The Banjo
Typed by: 

[Royce Da 5'9"]
Die bitch! Die hoe!
No God flow, no I go, Diablo
Why hoe? Why bitch, do time tick?
Think about it, you die slow, if not you die quick
I'm sicker than Theraflu
Wickeder than a kicked over headstone, sippin on redrum
After I'm finished just swimmin inside of the +Dead pool+
After I'm finished just inflictin on the guy, a despicable head wound
Nothin's important, but to import tons
On my fourth run while I'm eatin lunch with my forked tongue
I swing this motherfuckin barrel loose
I don't fuck with knives, nigga I'm Sardo Numsie
Y'all need to call the police on my people regardless
Rock-a-bye with my piece then call it Keisha in Harlem
I'm the highest of all beings, my eye is the all-seein
Dribblin fireballs with lion paws for my audience

[Chorus: Royce Da 5'9"]
What if the Devil played the banjo?
What if he invited you out on the dance flo'?
There's one of six million different ways this can go
{"Son cosas"}

(Griselda, Griselda)

[Westside Gunn] + (Conway)
Aiyyo, your fishscale Fisher-Price
First shot killed a nigga but I hit him twice
(Uh, my trigger finger itchin like it was lice)
(Sent the white in a pot with the ice, whipped it nice)
Hurricane whipped the whole slag
Fiend hit the glass, hit his ass, you know the math
(I toe-tag me a nigga, you know I spaz)
(I throw a bag to my young nigga, he'll get it over fast)
(Light it nigga) G-wag, 24 karat
Silencer on the Mac-12, you ain't even hear it
Lightning strikin on the Neil Barrett
Fuck nigga don't get embarrassed, fuckin two Sarah's out in Paris
(Bitch nigga, your life you better cherish)
(Ten shooters show up to your show just to air it)
Do-do-do-do-do (uh, Griselda dinner plate swingin)
Body in the Bentley truck, shit reakin


[Styles P]
Eyes are the windows to the soul, what your secret is?
Once had to battle the Reaper, and I ethered him
No tellin what he'll sing on the mic, he got reefer in him
Ghost guts, I can see a ghost, and speak to him
Buildin with the dead like, every other night
And I never write a rhyme, I recite my other life
You thinkin this a verse but it's more of a testimonial
So flow, up in the zone, only the lonely know
Thinkin I'm geekin but I'm reachin my dead homies though
Told 5'9", if I have a nine-to-five I'll line
rappers with the nine and, rob 'em five times
Every day, seven days a week, call it crime time
or, thirty-five licks, nigga, that's a prime rhyme
Fightin Bruce Lee's demon but I'm agin like fine wine
You don't understand me
Cause you don't stand under the code that mean family
Ghost is uncanny, yeah~!