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 hands 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 the 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.