John A. Hobson was a good man

He used to loan me books and mic stands

He even got me a subscription

To the Socialist Review

Listening to records in his basement

Old folk songs about the government

"It's love of money, not the market"

He said, "these fuckers push on you"



"And freedom yells, it don't cry

Whatever sells will decide

But there's no hell when you die

So don't look so worried"



He got a night life, lost his day job

Pushing papers, swinging pendulums

Anything to serve a function

Or to occupy some time



You gotta earn this living somehow

You're good as dead without a bank account

But it's funny how alive he felt down

In that unemployment line



With all that trash at his feet

The pools of piss in the street

All of that filthy empathy

For the way we're feeling



The billboards shade

The flags they wave

The anthem was playing loud

The baseball game was letting out



And all at once

he saw the dust

And heard every tiny sound

Got in his truck and turned around



Drove out through the crowd and the cops

Drove out past that center mall

Drove out past that sickening sprawl

Out past that fenced in crawl



And maybe he lost control

Fucking with the radio

But I bet the stars seemed so close

At the end

At the end

At the end