Capo on 3.
Credit to domoneill92 for the verses, but I wanted to get one up with the chorus (I think) right.
Hit me with your input. In the first line of the chorus, I'm torn between an F#m and a G following the D.
Intro:
G Em Am C D
G Em
Three brides before breakfast. These rails just wrecked us.
Am C D
My right hand on my heart while my left hand snaps your necklace.
G Em
Each day gets a little more scary. We're holding on, in a way, but just barely.
Am C D
Moms and Dads are rationing their cash for the commissary.
G Em C D F#m Em Am D
But I can't start without going all the way - it's a habit someone gave me.
G Em
The nursemaid of the blank page. A canary of the American eclipse.
C D
A profiteer picking up pink slips.
G Em Am C D
G Em
This wish just to go back, hey... when I know wasn't ever, ever happy!
Am C D
Show me my best memory - it's probably super crappy.
G Em
Nine years down in Texas, with sluts of both sexes,
Am C D
liars, lumps, and drug addicts, and drunks; I love my friends,
G Em C D F#m Em Am D
but I can't stop without going all the way, and I've been that way since '83.
G Em
The midwife of the jetlife. Oh, genie with a golden spliff.
C D G
A prostitute paid in pink slips.
G Em
I crashed my Cadillac in the valley of mirrors. When the call came, there was nobody here.
Am
When they came from the communists, I kissed them on the lips.
C D F#m Em Am D
Then they came for the singers, in a haze of pink slips.
G Em
I guess I was just dreaming and drifting, artificially lifted.
Am C D
Only happy until the age of ten is still a gift,
G Em C D F#m Em
but we can't go back to those "227" days.
Am D
It's just a dream we all were having.
G Em
Hey, mariner in the dirt trade. Oh, postman of the post-apocalypse -
C D
from Academy Awards to pink slips!
G Em
And I showered my Corvette with Moët for years, but now I'm standing
in the rain drinking the champagne of beers.
Am
They say, "Who's that shadow sneaking off behind the pier?
C D
He was rushed and then he was rattled, but now he's finally in the clear to be a
G Em
refugee from the rat race, in his white tuxedo and his sad-face.
Am G D
A music group that your dad plays, singing songs about autumn days.
G Em
He's the laureate of the Granite State, and now he doesn't even write, he just riffs.
C D G
And they'll cover up his coffin with pink slips.
