"This here machine kills fascists, y'all."
Our heroes are war criminals
And yahoos with guns
Or over-leveraged billionaires
With dirty-dealing sons
But America produced a few, real actual heroes
And this is one
A musician from Oklahoma
The burning hot dust bowl in the sun
He took to the Commune
because he wanted to support the working man
But the radio didn’t like his politics
And put him on the hard pan
Folk music was a thing back then
When white people were prejudiced
Against the nigger and the Jew
And the lifelong Socialist
This machine kills Fascists
This machine
This machine
Kills Fascists
He spent his time in New York, Texas
And the Great Northwest
Saw most of America
But never tasted the best.
Living dirt poor like a dog on a chain
Barely feeding his kids
Or tramping around with a guitar
Strapped to his back like a lid
Understand, this was a time
When people died of polio and diptheria
The rich had electric light
And the poor ate hunger and shit diarrhea
He shuffled off to see
How to make freedom and cooperation friends
Singing and writing and trying his whole life
To make something broken mend
He died of a disease
That no one then understood
And the press smeared his reputation
And said that he was no good
But the lights of a generation were kindled
From his song’s refrain
And we still can look back and listen
To a life so hard and plain
This machine kills Fascists
This machine
This machine
Kills Fascists