Hefner - May God Protect Your Home
[Bb]I'm tired of b[C]oys who fight with g[F]irls and stain their s[Bb]heets,
[Bb]And girls w[C]ho tell stories of b[F]oys and graze their k[Bb]nees,
[Bb]And where did you g[C]et to smell so s[F]weet,
Is that sweetness for m[Bb]e,
[Bb]And where did I f[C]ind these eyes that I f[F]ound,
They will surely let me d[Bb]own.
And your h[Bb]air stops short of a l[F]ine which starts at your n[Gm]eck,
And flows over your c[D]ollarbone down to your b[Em]reast,
Where my h[F]and lies ever so g[Bb]ently.
And my h[Bb]and starts to move down your s[F]tomach and in between those t[Gm]highs,
To a s[D]oft warm place I call h[Em]ome and may g[F]od protect your h[Bb]ome.
[Bb]There's a lady who c[C]ries and builds a sh[F]rine to her miscarried c[Bb]hild,
[Bb]And a small boy who c[C]ries and cries and c[F]ries and cries and c[Bb]ries.
[Bb]I see these s[C]ights with the sleepiest e[F]yes and a heart so co[Bb]ntentedly wise and tired,
[Bb]And now I bathe in the l[C]ight of the most beautiful h[F]eavenly angel this s[Bb]ide of the sun.
And your h[Bb]air stops short of a l[F]ine which starts at your n[Gm]eck,
And flows over your c[D]ollarbone down to your b[Em]reast,
Where my h[F]and lies ever so g[Bb]ently.
And my h[Bb]and starts to move down your s[F]tomach and in between those t[Gm]highs,
To a s[D]oft warm place I call h[Em]ome and may g[F]od protect your h[Bb]ome.
JD
[Bb]I'm tired of b[C]oys who fight with g[F]irls and stain their s[Bb]heets,
[Bb]And girls w[C]ho tell stories of b[F]oys and graze their k[Bb]nees,
[Bb]And where did you g[C]et to smell so s[F]weet,
Is that sweetness for m[Bb]e,
[Bb]And where did I f[C]ind these eyes that I f[F]ound,
They will surely let me d[Bb]own.
And your h[Bb]air stops short of a l[F]ine which starts at your n[Gm]eck,
And flows over your c[D]ollarbone down to your b[Em]reast,
Where my h[F]and lies ever so g[Bb]ently.
And my h[Bb]and starts to move down your s[F]tomach and in between those t[Gm]highs,
To a s[D]oft warm place I call h[Em]ome and may g[F]od protect your h[Bb]ome.
[Bb]There's a lady who c[C]ries and builds a sh[F]rine to her miscarried c[Bb]hild,
[Bb]And a small boy who c[C]ries and cries and c[F]ries and cries and c[Bb]ries.
[Bb]I see these s[C]ights with the sleepiest e[F]yes and a heart so co[Bb]ntentedly wise and tired,
[Bb]And now I bathe in the l[C]ight of the most beautiful h[F]eavenly angel this s[Bb]ide of the sun.
And your h[Bb]air stops short of a l[F]ine which starts at your n[Gm]eck,
And flows over your c[D]ollarbone down to your b[Em]reast,
Where my h[F]and lies ever so g[Bb]ently.
And my h[Bb]and starts to move down your s[F]tomach and in between those t[Gm]highs,
To a s[D]oft warm place I call h[Em]ome and may g[F]od protect your h[Bb]ome.
JD
