Sounds better if your gitbox is tuned to drop D. 

C :

Most the song is: Dm   Bb   Gm   Dm

As I lay me down to fall asleep
with my demons dying 
and my pilot light weak,
I curse the last six months
I've been hiding behind a mustache, yeah. 
And to those last 10 years
I've been howling a paper moon. 
Well fuck you. 

This goes out to all my underdone 
and undertongued, 
long longed frontment.
(This is what the ghost of someone's dad says)
And all us earth growths, 
some planted,
And some pulled
Shut up and put your money where your mouth is.)

You shine a flashlight in 
a hat box and spin,
an empty oyster shell, 
and celebrate the hollows.

This goes out to dirty dancing, cursing,
back masking, back slitting pastor's kids.
(From behind bars its not so hard to see he's risen.)
And all us earth growths, 
some planted,
And some pulled.
Nobody finds god and then goes to prison.)


This next part is: Gm   Bb   Dm   Gm 

          Gm         Bb
In Berlin I saw two men fuck 
            Dm                            Gm
in the dark corner of a basketball court. 
Just a slight jingle 
of pocket change pulsing.

         Gm                      Bb
In the tourist park I lost 50 euros 
            Dm                            Gm
to a guy with the walnut shells 
and the marble.
it really pissed me off
so eww, I thought I'd go 
back to get my money,
but all my homies warned me, 
"oh no, those gypsies probably 
got knives."

Then strum a d note a couple of times if its dropped it sounds the best

This goes out to all my under brewed, 
double duped, two time truthfuls.
(Stop thinking a phone call 
or text is too complicated.)
And all us earth growths, 
some planted,
(Like a married uncle at a family function.)
And some pulled.

I got them shaky gums and a couple of loose tooths.
Now tell me what should I do? 
My God, the clock's always 
stuck tellin' 11:11, at 3:32. 

This goes out to all to my under done, 
under tongued blung wunged frontmen. 
And all us earth growths, 
some planted,
and some pulled

This goes out to my under tongued, over done, long longed frontmen.
(This is what the ghost of someone's dad says.)
And all us earth growths doin' the croak 
like it ain't no joke.

In a crowded room projected debonair 
aloof impermanance
he shrouded loosely 
in a heavy air of indeterminates.
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