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Cold Dead Hand by Lonesome Earl The Clutterbusters
Cold Dead Hand
Intro (?ahhh? ahhh? AHHH!!!?)? F#m
A
Some folks ride like the wind,
D A
With the whispering pines to guide them,
D A
And the burning light inside them
E
Keeps them warm in the snow.
A
Others fear the sounds they hear,
D A
Make banditos out of molehills,
A D
Fill their hearts with porcupine quills,
E
They're dead and buried long before they go.
F#m A
Charlton Heston movies are no longer in demand,
F#m A
And his immortal soul may lay forever in the sand,
D A
The angels wouldn't take him up to heaven like he planned,
E Bm F#m
'Cuz they couldn't pry that gun from his Cold Dead Hand.
E D A
It takes a cold, dead hand to decide to pull the trigger,
E D A
Takes a cold, dead heart, and as near as I can figure,
C#m D A
With your cold, dead aim, you're trying to prove your dick is bigger
E
But we know,
D Bm A F#m
Your chariot may not be swinging low.
E
Cold, Dead Hand.
A
Cold, Dead Hand.
E
Cold, Dead Hand.
A
Cold, Dead hand.
F#m E F#m E
You're a big, big man with a little bitty gland,
F#m E F#m F#m
So you need something bigger just to fill your...Cold Dead Hand.
A D A
Imagine if the Lord were here, and he knew what you've been thinkin',
D A E
Would his sacred heart be sinkin', into the canyon of dismay?
A D A
And on the ones who sell the guns, he'd sick the vultures and coyotes,
D A
Only the devil's true devotees
E
Could profiteer from pain and fear.
(Repeat verses 3-5)
F#m E F#m E
You're a big, big man with a little bitty gland,
F#m E F#m E
So you need something bigger with a hairpin trigger,
F#m E F#m E
You don't wanna get caught with your trousers down,
F#m E F#m E
When the psycho killer comes around.
F#m E F#m E
So you make your home like a Thunderdome,
F#m E F#m E
And you're always packin' everywhere you roam,
F#m E F#m E
And the psychos win no matter what you do,
F#m E F#m E
'Cuz they're gonna buy way more guns than you.
(double time)
F#m E F#m E
And while you're stumblin' out of bed,
F#m E F#m E
they put five rounds in the back of your head,
F#m E F#m E
Or you get depressed 'cuz the money went South,
F#m E F#m E
and you put your own shotgun in your mouth,
F#m E F#m E
and your kids walk in and they find you there,
F#m E F#m E
like a headless lump in your underwear,
F#m E F#m E
and they move the gun and it kills them too,
F#m E F#m E
and your wife just doesn't know what to do,
F#m E F#m E
so she takes a hand-grenade from her shoe,
F#m
and she pulls the pin.
And it's all on you...
Bm F#m
And your Cold, Dead Hand.
(final notes? D-C#-B-A-G#-F#)
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