Light Pollution Bright Eyes

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 night life, lost his day job
Pushing papers, 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