Tamanho do texto:
This iDs my forty-fifth depressingA tune G
DThey're looking for money asA they clean my artistic womb G Em
DAnd when I give birth to theA child I must take to flight G Em
D'Cause the black in our pockAet won't let us fight G Em
A pAroper fight C
So hey baby A
CanC you shed some light on the problem maybe A
C'Cause we're all tired and we'd Alike to know D G
If we shEmould pack our tentsC, shut doCmwn the show G G
Yes, we should like to sEmee a burning bush-tCype sign Cm G
BCut anythiCmng would be fine G
DWe're all told to dance butA we never picked the tune G
DHanging like puppets they feAed us from bent steel spoons G Em
DBut we're sealing our lips fAor the someday when the needle G Em
DAnd the vinyl play all the sAongs of the pain G Em
SongsA that explain C
All our circles and strains A
SoC hey babyA
CCan you shed some light on the problem maybe A
C'Cause we're all crying and we'dA like to know D G
If we shoEmuld pack our tents,C shut dowCmn the show G G
Yes, we should like tEmo see a burning busCh-type siCmgn G
CBut anythCming would be fine G
CWe're all dying and we'd like toA know D G
EmIf we should pack oCur tents,Cm shut down the show G G
Yes, we should like tEmo see a burning busCh-type siCmgn G
CBut anythCming would be fine G
COh, anythCming would be fine G
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