Bright Eyes

Jonny 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 selves 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 that life has 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