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 master's 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'. A mass of promises. Begin to rupture. Like the pockets. Of the new world kings. Like swollen stomachs. In Appalachia. It's the priests that f**k you. As they whisper holy things. A mass of tears have transformed to stones now. Sharpened on suffering. And 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 the new ground. Ain't 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. Ain't 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