A mass of hands press on the market window
Ghosts of progess
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 benath 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 facist 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 fuck you
As they whisper holy things
A mass of tears have transformed to stones now
Sharpened on suffering
And woven into slings
Hop lies in the rubble of this rich fortress
Takin 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