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 nightlife, lost his day job Pushing papers, swinging pendulums Anything to serve a function Or to occupy some time You've got to 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 billboard's 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 gold 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 At the end At the endTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
