Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

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

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

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

In higher places, clocks chime for the of the lords. They stay
discreet as guilty secrets cause no shame closed doors. A portion for
the megabomb. A portion for the queen... can't forget the or the law
'cos they have to keep the clean. And sure they know they'll get
their way as echo from the streets. (The blood is thicker from the
streets) His hired and sheets of armor gives them 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.
after midnight... There's no discretion in the mass. A volley. A
silence as cover up the mess.

Don't kid yourself. You're civilized - it happen anywhere.
In cities, steaming jungles... maybe even here.