Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

Right raised. The left plants stickers - picking out the deviant. A
choice of colours, inclinations, that see only red. He wants them
dead. He kills them in his mirror when dark... And when he thinks that
no-one is looking he spreads the spraypaint and leaves his mark.
shout out from walls, tattooed on a million fists. Clenched
together, safe in numbers... from the precipice. Fodder! Plod on
down your icy path... A cannon is for the fodder. Enlightenment
with a blast. A bang. A bangabangabang...

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

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

In higher places, clocks chime for the meeting of the lords. They
discreet as guilty secrets no shame behind closed doors. A portion for
the megabomb. A for the queen... can't forget the army or the law
'cos they have to the cities clean. And sure they know they'll 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, where justice in shiny red.
Where dies and passion burns persuasion's just a hole in the head.
Purges after midnight... There's no in the mass. A volley. A
silence as cover up the mess.

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