G               D
John A Hobson was a good man
Am              C
he used to loan me books and mic stands
G               D
he even got me a subscription 
Am              C
to the Socialist Review
G               D
listening to records in his basement
Am              C
old folk songs about the government
G               D
"it's love of money, not the market," 
Am              C
he said, "these fuckers push on you.
G               D
and freedom yells, it dont cry.
G               D
whatever sells will decide.
G               D
but there is no hell when you die.
        Am
so dont look so worried."
G               D
he got a night life, lost his day job
Am              C
pushing paper, swinging pendulums
G               D
anything to serve a function 
Am              C
or to occupy some time
G               D
you have got to earn this living somehow
Am              C
you are good as dead without a bank account
G               D
but it is funny how alive he felt down 
Am              C
in that unemployment line
G               D
with all the trash at his feet
G               D
the pools of piss in the street
G               D
all of that filthy empathy 
        Am
for the way we're feeling

G-D-Am-C (x2)

G               D
the billboards shade, the flags they wave
Am              C
the anthem was playing loud
G               D
the baseball game was letting out
Am              C
then all at once he saw the dust
G               D
and heard every tiny sound
Am              C
got in his truck and turned around
G               D
drove out through the crowd and the cops
Am              C
drove out past that center mall
G               D
drove out past that sickening sprawl
Am              C
out past that fenced in gold
G               D
and maybe he lost control 
G               D
fucking with the radio
G               D
but i bet the stars seemed so close 
        Am
at the end