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.