Luyện nghe bài hát Wall Purges Night

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

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

Equality is a word for cranks to out as the batons swing. It's
beautiful in theory... he knows 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 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 echo the streets. (The blood is thicker from the
streets) His hired guns and sheets of armor gives them through the
heat! The fodder...

But there are other bullets, other walls, where cries in shiny red.
Where reason dies and passion burns just a hole in the head.
Purges after midnight... no discretion 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.