Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

Right hand raised. The left plants - picking out the deviant. A
choice of colours, inclinations, factions that see only red. He wants
dead. He kills them in his when it's dark... And when he thinks that
no-one is looking he the spraypaint and leaves his mark. Swastikas
shout out walls, they're tattooed on a million fists. Clenched
together, safe in numbers... waving from the precipice. Fodder! 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 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.
in theory... he knows it's not for him. He's got his fodder!

In higher places, clocks for the meeting 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 forget the or the law
'cos they have to the cities clean. And sure they know they'll get
their way as protests echo the streets. (The blood is thicker from the
streets) His hired guns and sheets of armor them shelter through the
heat! The fodder...

But there are bullets, other walls, where justice cries in shiny red.
Where reason 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 - it could happen anywhere.
In cities, steaming jungles... maybe even here.