A mass of hands press on the market window

Ghosts of progress

Dressed in slow death

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

Buried for drinking

The rivers water

While shackled to the line

At the empty well



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 god's land

Soon well be free

Of blot and mixture

Seeds planted by our

Forefathers hand



A mass of promises

Begin to rupture

Like the pockets

Of the new world kings

Like swollen stomachs

In Appalachia

Like the priests that fuck you

As they whisper holy things

A mass of tears have transformed to stones now

Sharpened on suffering

Woven 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 new ground



Aint it funny how the factorys 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 factorys doors close

Round the time that the school doors close

Round the time that a hundred thousand 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