I didn’t come here to conquer, didn’t come to forget. I came with hands, not noise — and no plan but respect. You wear flags like designer brands, talk loud in a borrowed tongue, But this ground don’t owe you style — it gave you shelter when you had none. We were taught to clean our shoes at the door, to bless the hands that feed. Now I see you spit on the floor like you never learned to bleed. Don’t burn it down. Don’t burn it down. This land don’t owe you love — it gave you ground. Saw you spraying names on brick — but can you even read ’em? Say it’s about roots — but do you really need ’em? You wear pain like a flag — but who lit that fire? You talk about pride — but what do you build with it, man? We were raised to nod when we enter a room, to share even when it’s not enough. Now I see you act like it’s all for you — like respect’s just a word, not a trust. Don’t burn it down. Don’t burn it down. This land don’t owe you love — it gave you ground. You ran from fire, now you bring sparks. Forgot the cold? Forgot the dark? That door didn’t swing open for nothin’ — it was held, it was earned, it was marked. A hundred names buried just to get here. Don’t spit where your mother would kneel. You think this place is soft? Nah, it just gave you a chance to heal. Don’t burn it down. Don’t burn it down. This land don’t owe you love — it gave you ground. Don’t burn it down. Don’t burn it down.
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