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 dayjob    pushing paper, 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 lettin' 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    fuckin' 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 end