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
