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