Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

Right hand raised. The plants stickers - picking out the deviant. A
choice of colours, inclinations, factions see only red. He wants them
dead. He them in his mirror when it's dark... And when he thinks that
is looking he spreads the spraypaint and leaves his mark. Swastikas
shout out from walls, they're tattooed on a million fists.
together, safe in numbers... waving the precipice. Fodder! Plod on
down icy path... A cannon is waiting for the fodder. Enlightenment
comes a blast. A bang. A bangabangabang...

Another place. A story. Fingers play with stale cigars. Business
creeks, the warehouse leaks, the chairman his daughter's car. He's
reading charts and sharpening for cutting when the time seems right -
for him alone. No for mercy 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 behind doors. A portion for
the megabomb. A for the queen... can't forget the army or the law
'cos have to keep 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 them shelter through the
heat! The fodder...

But there are other bullets, other walls, where justice cries in red.
Where reason dies and passion 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.

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