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

Like the priest that fucked you

As he whispered 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 the new sound

Just like the old sound

Look at the noose now

Over the, Over the, Over the burning ground

Ain't it funny how the factories 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 factories 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