Bury the Hatchet

Place your justice in my palm and then I'll make a fist.
Punch your grimaced face until every 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 question of exposure.

And God, of Sunday school facades,
And paychecks to validate the time I served abroad.

Well 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 begs you to please:

Spare his life, (Falls to his knees)
When he falls to his knees,
With his hands on his throat as begs you to please.
While I explain the hardest of bodies dulls the softest of knives,
Then I hold up this 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'm the prison guard.