Protest the hero - Bury The Hatchet

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