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• Artiste: Protest The Hero
• Titre: Bury The Hatchet
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Place your justice in my palm and then I'll make 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 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 head 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