Bury the Hatchet

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 façades and paycheques to validate the time I served abroad 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 hand on his throat while he begs you to please spare his life While I explain the hardest of bodies dulls the softest of knives Then I hold up his chin and carve X's in his eyes I swear I have compassion I've just been trained to disregard the prisoner's life Because I am the prison guard --- Bury the Hatchet - Protest the Hero