Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

Right hand raised. The left plants stickers - out the deviant. A
of colours, inclinations, factions 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 the spraypaint and leaves his mark. Swastikas
shout out from walls, they're tattooed on a fists. Clenched
together, safe in numbers... waving the precipice. Fodder! Plod on
down your icy path... A cannon is waiting for the fodder.
comes a blast. A bang. A bangabangabang...

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

Equality is a word for cranks to shout out as the batons swing.
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 secrets cause no shame behind closed doors. A portion for
the megabomb. A portion for the queen... can't the army or the law
'cos they have to the cities clean. And sure they know they'll get
way as protests echo from the streets. (The blood is thicker from the
streets) His hired guns and of armor gives them shelter through the
heat! The fodder...

But there are other bullets, other walls, where justice cries in 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.

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