[House quiets. One mic. No beat yet.] If you gon’ talk slick— spit it out clean. Don’t chew my name like gum you found under a seat. Don’t gargle my legend to sound tall. If you got stone in your mouth, be brave enough to cough the quarry. If you got sticks on your tongue, spit the forest and stop hiding in it. You know that grade-school charm? “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Cute. But I grew fangs and wings out the bruise. I learned a trick: Sticks can scaffold. Stones can pave. Your words? Paper airplanes. I fold ‘em into doves and let ‘em fly back to whatever sky raised ‘em. Say my name like it matters or don’t say it at all. If my name is a dove in your throat— either hold it gentle, or open the cage and set it free. Don’t aim beaks at windows and call that “truth.” Don’t throw syllables like rocks and call that “real.” Throw it. Throw your sticks, throw your stones, throw your little glass tones. Throw your rumor like a boomerang—watch it come home. Throw your shadows—I’ll wear ‘em as shade. Throw your flames—I’ll slow burn, unafraid. Throw it— watch me catch it, fold it, bless it, and let it go. I won’t let your spit shape my soul. I won’t let your noise name my bones. If you must speak on me, speak with lungs not knives. If you must measure me, bring a ruler that knows mercy. If you must crown me, let it be with quiet— not clattering metals, not borrowed thunder. Listen— I’m not here to choke on your chorus. I’m here to tune the room. I’m here to prove a softer weapon wins: listen long enough and even a rock will confess its river. Now… breathe. Open your hands. Let the dove go. Let my name go clean. [Two-finger snap. Beat cue.] Say—my—name— like a dove in your throat… [Drop the hook/chorus.]
