A mass of hands press on the market window
Ghosts of progress
Feeding on hunger
And glaring through the promise
Upon the food that rots slowly in the aisle
A mass of nameless at the oasis
That hides the graves beneath the masters hill
Are buried for drinking
The rivers water
While shackled to the line
At the empty wall
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Listen to the fascist sing
Take hope here
War is elsewhere
You were chosen
This is gods land
Soon well be free
Of blot and mixture
Seeds planted by our
Forefathers hand
A mass of promise
Begin to rupture
Like the pockets
Of the new world kings
Like swollen stomachs
In applachia
Its the priests that fuck you
As they whisper holy things
A mass of tears have transformed to stones now
Sharpened on suffering
And women into slings
Hope lies in the rubble of this rich fortress
Taking today what tomorrow never brings
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Aint it funny how the factory doors close
Round the time that the school doors close
Round the time that the doors of the jail cells
Open up to greet you like the reaper
Aint it funny how the factory doors close
Round the time that the school doors close
Round the time that the doors of the jail cells
Open up to greet you like the reaper
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Like ashes in the fall
Ghosts of progress
Feeding on hunger
And glaring through the promise
Upon the food that rots slowly in the aisle
A mass of nameless at the oasis
That hides the graves beneath the masters hill
Are buried for drinking
The rivers water
While shackled to the line
At the empty wall
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Listen to the fascist sing
Take hope here
War is elsewhere
You were chosen
This is gods land
Soon well be free
Of blot and mixture
Seeds planted by our
Forefathers hand
A mass of promise
Begin to rupture
Like the pockets
Of the new world kings
Like swollen stomachs
In applachia
Its the priests that fuck you
As they whisper holy things
A mass of tears have transformed to stones now
Sharpened on suffering
And women into slings
Hope lies in the rubble of this rich fortress
Taking today what tomorrow never brings
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Aint it funny how the factory doors close
Round the time that the school doors close
Round the time that the doors of the jail cells
Open up to greet you like the reaper
Aint it funny how the factory doors close
Round the time that the school doors close
Round the time that the doors of the jail cells
Open up to greet you like the reaper
This is the new sound
Just like the old sound
Just like the noose wound
Over the new ground
Like ashes in the fall
Contributed by Alessandro - 2009/8/19 - 13:13
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Album "The Battle of Los Angeles"