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