By Buddy Miller
Capo 1 (or no capo and use F, D#, A# and C as the chords)
It's the [Em]demolition derby, it's the sport of the hunt
[Em]Proud tribe in [D]full war-dance[A], it's the slow[D] smile that the [Em]bully gives the runt
[Em]it's the force of inertia, it's the lack of constraint
it's the [Em]children out p[D]laying in the rock [A]garden all dolled-[D]up in black hats and[Em] war paint
Chorus:
[B]Sometimes it feels like bars of steel I cannot bend with my hands
[Em]O-o[D]-oh - I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]Somebody [D]told me that I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]O-o[D]-oh - I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]Somebody [D]told me that I [A]worry tooooo [Em]much
It's these sandpaper eyes, it's the way they rub the luster from what is seen
It's the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal till we can't remember what we mean
It's the flicker of our flames, it's the friction born of living
It's the way we beat a hot retreat and heave our smoking guns into the river
Chorus
Hey yea-e-eh
It's the quick-step march of history, the vanity of nations
It's the way there'll be no muffled drums to mark the passage of my generation
It's the children of my children, it's the lambs born in innocence
It's wondering if the good I know will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones
Chorus
Capo 1 (or no capo and use F, D#, A# and C as the chords)
It's the [Em]demolition derby, it's the sport of the hunt
[Em]Proud tribe in [D]full war-dance[A], it's the slow[D] smile that the [Em]bully gives the runt
[Em]it's the force of inertia, it's the lack of constraint
it's the [Em]children out p[D]laying in the rock [A]garden all dolled-[D]up in black hats and[Em] war paint
Chorus:
[B]Sometimes it feels like bars of steel I cannot bend with my hands
[Em]O-o[D]-oh - I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]Somebody [D]told me that I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]O-o[D]-oh - I [A]worry too [Em]much
[Em]Somebody [D]told me that I [A]worry tooooo [Em]much
It's these sandpaper eyes, it's the way they rub the luster from what is seen
It's the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal till we can't remember what we mean
It's the flicker of our flames, it's the friction born of living
It's the way we beat a hot retreat and heave our smoking guns into the river
Chorus
Hey yea-e-eh
It's the quick-step march of history, the vanity of nations
It's the way there'll be no muffled drums to mark the passage of my generation
It's the children of my children, it's the lambs born in innocence
It's wondering if the good I know will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones
Chorus
