Keep Your Hands Up

Son, you're getting to the age where I've gotta teach you how to fight I don't want to Social contracts and kind hearts should be enough But too often, they are not So get your hands up There aren't any referees in the wild Son, it is strike or be struck When you hit, don't just make contact with this animal Crack the back of his skull when you hay-make his mandible Split his right from his left when you kick in his chest Do not bruise what you can break They will not give you the same courtesy Keep your hands up When you get hit, yes, when Do not come undone Fear is their favourite weapon Their overhand is not your guillotine Their uppercut is not your skewer Remember that they are just flesh, bone and depravity Bob, weave and breathe Keep your hands up It is worth noting, son That the most significant battles for your life won't be fist fights Most times, your flesh will ensnare you It'll hog-tie and slug your better judgment like a bountiful piñata Make you dangle and watch every crimson millilitre of temptation Gush from your mutilated mind In those moments, son When your hands are bound behind you Clasp them tightly Get them up as high as you can And pray For liberation For mercy For a strength greater than yours So that you can let yourself down And subdue your flesh with a divine conviction Even afterwards Keep your hands up Because despite these directions There will still be bouts that I can't teach you enough about I have not yet found A strike that can stop a mind from choking itself Or a counter for cops with bloodlust and the law on their side I can't sweep loved ones out of bad decisions Or shield them when their number's been called Too many of your life's fights won't be fair And the only peace I've found in those battles, son Is, for the love of God, to keep your hands up