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Correct The Banjo Lyrics
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Royce da 5'9"
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Correct The Banjo
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[Verse 1: Royce Da 5'9"] Die, bitch, die, hoe New 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 kick 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' is 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 niggas 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-seeing Dribblin' fireballs with lion paws for my audience [Hook: Royce Da 5'9"] What if the Devil played the banjo? What if he invited you out on the dance floor? There's one of six million different ways this can go [Verse 2: Westside Gunn & Conway] Ayo, your fishscale Fisher-Price First shot killed a nigga, but I hit him twice 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 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 Fuck your two Sarah's out in Paris Bitch nigga, your life, you better cherish Ten shooters show up to your show just to air it Griselda, the dinner place swingin' Body in the Bentley truck, shit reakin' [Hook: Royce Da 5'9"] What if the Devil played the banjo? What if he invited you out on the dance floor? There's one of six million different ways this can go (So go fast) [Verse 3: 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 I'll sing on the mic, he got reefer in 'em Ghost guts, I can see a ghost, and speak to 'em 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 [Hook: Royce Da 5'9"] What if the Devil played the banjo? What if he invited you out on the dance floor? There's one of six million different ways this can go
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