A Most Disgusting Song Acordes

	  Intro - E, A, F#7, B7 

E 
I've played every kind of gig there is to play now 
A 
I've played faggot bars, hooker bars, motor cycle funerals 
F#7                                                               B7 
In opera houses, concert halls, halfway houses. 

E 
Well I found that in all these places that I've played 
A 
all the people I've played for are the same people 
F#7                                                                                            B7 
So if you'll listen, maybe you'll see someone you know in this song. 

B7 
A most disgusting song. 

E 
The local diddy bop pimp comes in 
A 
Acting limp he sits down with a grin 
F#7                       
next to a girl that has never been chased 
B7 
The bartender wipes a smile off his face 
E 
The delegates cross the floor, 
A 
curtsy and promenade through the doors, 
F#7                                       B7 
and slowly the evening begins. 


And there's Jimmy "Bad Luck" Butts 
who's just crazy about them East Lafayette weekend sluts 
Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt 
And everyone's drinking the detergents 
that cannot remove their hurts 

While the Mafia provides your drugs, 
your government will provide the shrugs, 
and your national guard will supply the slugs, 
so they sit all satisfied. 

And there's old playboy Ralph 
who's always been shorter than himself, 
and there's a man with his chin in his hand, 
who knows more than he'll ever understand. 

Yeah, every night it's the same old thing 
Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny 
At the "Inn-Between", again. 

And there's the bearded schoolboy with the wooden eyes. 
Who at every scented skirt whispers up and sighs 
and there's the teacher that will kiss you in French 
Who could never give love, could only fearfully clench 

Yeah, people every night it's the same old thing 
Getting pacified, ossified, affectionate at Mr. Flood's party, again 

And there's the militant with his store-bought soul 
There's someone here who's almost a virgin I've been told 
And there's Linda glass-made who speaks of the past 
who genuflects, salutes, signs the cross and stands at half masts 

Yeah, They're all here, the Tiny Tims and the Uncle Toms, 
red heads brunettes, brownettes and the dyed haired blondes, 
Who talk to dogs, chase broads and have hopes of being mobbed, 
who mislay their dreams and lay their claim that they were robbed 

And every night it's going to be the same old thing 
Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny 
Lost, even, at Martha's Vineyard, again  

Notes: For ?Live Fact? version, play in the key of D. (D  G, E7, A7)