Альбом - The Battle of Los Angeles

Текст:
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
mass of nameless at the oasis
That hides the graves beneath the masters hill
Are buried for drinking
The river's 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 we'll be free
Of blot and mixture
Seeds planted by our
Forefather's hand"

mass of promises
Begin [bad word] Like the pockets
Of the new world kings
Like swollen stomachs
In Appalachia
Like the priests that [bad word] you
As they whisper holy things
mass of tears have transformed to stones now
Sharpened on suffering
And woven into slings
Hope lies in [bad word] 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