| Johnny Hobson was a good man
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| He used to loan me books and mic stands
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| He even got me a subscription
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| To the Socialist Review
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| Listening to records in his basement
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| Old folk songs about the government
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| It’s love of money not the market
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| He said these fuckers push on you
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| And freedom yells, it don’t cry
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| Whatever selves will decide
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| But there’s no hell when you die
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| So don’t look so worried
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| He got a night life, lost his day job
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| Pushing papers, swinging pendulums
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| Anything to serve the function
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| Or to occupy some time
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| You gotta earn this living somehow
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| You’re good as dead without a bank account
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| But it’s funny how that life has felt down
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| In that unemployment line
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| With all that trash at his feet
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| The pools of piss in the street
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| All of that filthy empathy
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| For the way we’re feeling
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| Don’t worry
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| Don’t worry
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| Don’t worry
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| The billboards shade
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| The flags they wave
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| The anthem’s playing loud
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| The baseball game was letting out
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| And all at once
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| You saw the dust and hurt
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| And turned the sound
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| Got in his truck and turned around
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| Drove out through the crowd and the cops
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| Drove out past that center mall
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| Drove out past that sickening sprawl
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| Out past that fenced in gold
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| And maybe he lost control
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| Fucking with the radio
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| But I bet the stars seem so close
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| At the end
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| At the end
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| At the end
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| At the end |