------
| | E |
| | In the shit house, a shotgun |
| Praying hands hold me down |
| Only the hunter was hunted |
| In this tin can town, tin can town |
| No stars in the black night |
| Looks like the sky fall down |
| Looks like it's chained to the ground, chained to the ground. |
| E A E A(XII) E A(XII) E A(XII) E |
| | E | A | E |
| | Broken back to the ceiling | | |
| | A | E |
| I scream at the sounds, it's coming | | |
| | A | E |
| There's a rope around my neck and | there's a | |
| I am someone! I am someone! |
| | E | A |
| | Captains and kings | in the slave ships hold |
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| | E |
| | Seen them coming and going |
| Seen them captains and the kings |
| Seen them navy blue uniforms |
| Seen them bright and shiny things, bright shiny things, yeah! |
| The temperature is rising |
| Mister I ain't got nothing But it's |
| | A | E |
| Nor the shackles at my feet | | |
| Outside are the prisoners |
| | A | E |
| Inside the free, | set them | free |
| | E | A |
| | A prize fighter in a | corner is told |
| | B | E |
| | Hit where it hurts | -- silver and gold |
| This song was written in a hotel room in New York City. |
| Right about the time a friend of ours, little Steven, |
| Was pulling together a record of artists against Apartheid. |
| It's a song written about a man, in a shanty town outside of Johannesburg. |
| A man who's sick of looking down the barrel of White South Africa. |
| A man at the point where he is ready to take up arms against his oppressor. |
| A man who's lost faith in the peace makers of the West. |
| While they argue and while they fail to support a man like Bishop Tutu. |
| And his request for economic sanctions against South Africa. |
| Am I bugging you? I don't mean to bug ya'. |
| Okay Edge, play the blues." |
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