[Intro: Harry Belafonte and Mr. Harlow]
Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch!
Yeah
Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch! (Guess who?)

[Verse]
Excuse my ability, lyrical artillery (Oh, uh)
Comin' in this game and I've just begun my trilogy (Now)
Rappers not as ill as me, you feelin' me? I'm killin' see? (What?)
Metaphorically I be Obama in your Hillary
I'm still conceived as dominant, bombin' it, confident
You step to me there will be some sort of lyrical consequence (Boom)
Yeah, and to this game I be a compliment
It's obvious I'm excellent and you would be the opposite (Yeah, oh)
Yeah, and my game is so advanced
You would think I own a deli 'cause the way I'm goin' ham (Ha!)
Music pretty good, but I'm at a low demand
Haters won't admit it but they know my flow is grand (Yeah)
Yeah, and I spit the quality
Six-foot-seven rappers not as tall as me (Woah)
I think so diabolically, no wonder they follow me
Livin' in the present, but the future is callin' me (Hi)
Lightin' up like a holly tree (Christmas!)
See me on my grizzy, I be
Black and red, black and red all for the city (Woo!)
Lyrics are witty, you can tell that I'm busy (yeah, Huh)
I can write a whole verse, kill a beat and then jiffy (Dang)
[Outro]
Yeah, okay
Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch! (x4)
I didn't see that one comin'