In my head it makes perfect sense
A cautionary tale sitting on a fence
Send your goons to break a turned cheek
Our sapphire sockets and pacifist’s bleat
Your charged words have got me by the wrist
Turning gold to dirt, reverse alchemist
I’m scared in a face irate
But I won’t fight just to break your plate
A mealy interior and a bullish stance
Dealing war crimes in repetitious cadence
A culprit in the pulpit without rhyme or treason
A fallen rioteer with a reason
Your charged words have got me by the wrist
Turning gold to dirt, reverse alchemist
I’m scared in a face irate
But I won’t fight just to break your plate
With your charged words…