Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

Right hand raised. The left stickers - picking out the deviant. A
choice of colours, inclinations, factions that see only red. He wants
dead. He kills in his mirror when it's dark... And when he thinks that
no-one is looking he spreads the and leaves his mark. Swastikas
shout out from walls, they're on a million fists. Clenched
together, in numbers... waving from the precipice. Fodder! Plod on
your icy path... A cannon is waiting for the fodder. Enlightenment
comes a blast. A bang. A bangabangabang...

Another place. A different story. Fingers play stale cigars. Business
creeks, the warehouse leaks, the sold his daughter's car. He's
reading charts and knives for cutting when the time seems right -
for him alone. No pause for if the victim's out of sight.

Equality is a word for cranks to shout out as the swing. It's
beautiful in theory... he knows not for him. He's got his fodder!

In higher places, clocks chime for the meeting of the lords. They
discreet as guilty cause no shame behind closed doors. A portion for
the megabomb. A portion for the queen... forget the army or the law
'cos they have to keep the cities clean. And sure they know get
their way as protests from the streets. (The blood is thicker from the
streets) His hired guns and sheets of armor gives shelter through the
heat! The fodder...

But there are other bullets, other walls, justice cries in shiny red.
Where reason dies and passion burns persuasion's just a in the head.
Purges after midnight... no discretion in the mass. A volley. A
silence as cover up the mess.

kid yourself. You're civilized - it could happen anywhere.
In cities, steaming jungles... maybe even here.