Light Pollution
John A. Hobson was a good manHe used to loan me books and mic standsHe even got me a subscriptionTo the Socialist ReviewListening to records in his basementOld 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 cryWhatever sells will decideBut there's no hell when you dieSo don't look so worried
He got a night life, lost his day jobPushing papers, swinging pendulumsAnything to serve a functionOr to occupy some time
You gotta earn this living somehowYou're good as dead without a bank accountBut it's funny how alive he felt downIn that unemployment line
With all that trash at his feetThe pools of piss in the streetAll of that filthy empathyFor the way we're feeling
The billboards shadeThe flags they waveThe anthem was playing loudThe baseball game was letting out
And all at oncehe saw the dustAnd heard every tiny soundGot in his truck and turned around
Drove out through the crowd and the copsDrove out past that center mallDrove out past that sickening sprawlOut past that fenced in crawl
And maybe he lost controlFucking with the radioBut I bet the stars seemed so closeAt the end