| Johnny 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 selves 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 the 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 that life has 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 |
| Don’t worry |
| Don’t worry |
| Don’t worry |
| The billboards shade |
| The flags they wave |
| The anthem’s playing loud |
| The baseball game was letting out |
| And all at once |
| You saw the dust and hurt |
| And turned the 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 gold |
| And maybe he lost control |
| Fucking with the radio |
| But I bet the stars seem so close |
| At the end |
| At the end |
| At the end |
| At the end |