Discord server: https://discord.gg/KSxkRFKEYv Youtube : https://youtu.be/cai04IkTr_0 [Intro] Strike the Match, Blame the Weather Red flag over the ridge. Fuel can under the coat. Forecast open on the dashboard. Excuse already in the throat. [Verse 1] The reservoir sank to a rust-coloured scar, dead pine packed the pass like powder in a jar. He read RED FLAG like permission to proceed, checked which way the afternoon would carry what he’d seed, then parked beyond the cameras where the scrub concealed the deed. Petrol through the cheatgrass, sulphur on his thumb, one bright scratch, then the little flame comes. He steps back clean while the first branches spit: [Mocking falsetto] “The atmosphere was angry! I had nothing to do with it!” Strike the match, blame the weather. Bring the fuel, blame July. Drought can load the landscape, wind can drive it faster, but no forecast grew fingers and set the hillside high. [Verse 2] Grass gave a hiss, scrub oak gave a crack, fire found the deadwood and never once looked back. He filmed the plume rising with a statesman’s solemn face, posted “Nature’s warning” while the flames erased the place, then cropped the red container from the corner of the frame. “The match was pre-lit!” “The petrol identified as rain!” “The wind radicalised it!” “Please direct all questions to the climate-change department!” [Verse 3] Crews cut line while the school gym filled with beds, livestock kicked trailers beneath a sky gone red. Engines burned through diesel, roofs collapsed in rows, one man spent a match and sent the bill to every home, then praised “shared sacrifice” where the press microphones glowed. Heat is an amplifier. Drought can make fire race. Neither bought the petrol. Neither chose the place. [Verse 4] Then the wind wheeled round and came roaring through the draw, crossed the road, crossed the break, ignored his little law. It found his own street by the chapel and the lake; he joined the line of families fleeing what he chose to make, three hollow cans behind him knocking every time he braked. “Local climate hero bravely escapes mysterious wildfire.” “Authorities refuse to rule out summer.” “Suspect claims the fuel can was merely weather-adjacent.” “Experts confirm that accountability remains dangerously warm.” Human-caused does not mean arson every time: wires fail, tools spark, campfires cross a line. But fuel laid deliberately and ignition timed to wind is not a season acting through a troubled human mind. The climate shaped the spread; the arsonist chose the crime. You chose the ridge. You chose the hour. You brought the can and handed wind the power. Drought made it vicious, but the first flame bears your name. Hide behind the heat. Preach beneath the smoke. Launder guilt through science, turn a crime into a joke. No season buys petrol. No forecast strikes flame. You lit it! Own the name!
