bury the hatchet

well place your justice in my palm, and then i'll make a fist, and 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 questions of exposure, and god of sunday school facades, and paycheques to validate the time i served abroad, if i forget why i'm here, to serve and protect my fist over fist, mind under matter career, that's why this sounds kind of funny, when he falls to his knees, with his hand on his throat while he begs you to please, falls to his knees, falls to his knees, oh all of this ask for change, while i explain the hardest of bodies dulls the softest of knives, when i hold up his head and carve x's in his eyes, when i hold up his head and carve x's in his eyes, 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, i swear i have compassion, i've just been trained to disregard the prisoner's life, because i am the prison guard