Place your justice in my palm and then I'll make a fist
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Punch your grimaced face until every knuckle breaks
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And bleeds in resistance to my sidewalk painting
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A mangled body twitching and regaining consciousness and closure
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Attempting composure before a bullet in the mouth answers the questions of exposure
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And God of Sunday School facades and paycheques to validate the time I served abroad
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It all means nothing if I forget why I'm here
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To serve and protect my fist over fist mind under matter career
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That's why a man sounds kind of funny when he falls to his knees
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With his hand on his throat while he begs you to please spare his life
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While I explain the hardest of bodies dulls the softest of knives
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Then I hold up his head and carve X's in his eyes
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I swear I have compassion I've just been trained to disregard the prisoner's life
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'cause I am the prison guard
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Bury The Hatchet
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| Protest The Hero |
