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Lucky ukulele

by Fish
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#----------------------------------PLEASE NOTE---------------------------------#
#This file is the author's own work and represents their interpretation of the #
#song. You may only use this file for private study, scholarship, or research. #
#------------------------------------------------------------------------------##
Date: Fri, 8 Dec 1995 14:04:43 GMT+1
From: CHRISTER VARANchrister Varan 
Subject: CRD: Lucky by Fish

Hi, Fish lover.
Here's a song I like very much.....

                             - Lucky -
                 from the album "Acustic Session" by Fish


D    C    G
D    C    G

D
He met with the world as a Dalkeith boy,
Raised from a shaft at Monktonhall
     C
In a well oiled cage,
                     G
That locked away his dreams.
   D
An '85 veteran facefrom the gallery,
A ghost from the civil war in the family,
   C
He stood his ground on the picketline.
 G
'Til all that he was left with,
         D
Were his father's cough
And his mother's eyes.
That would hold a tear
For the very first time,
         C                       G
When the government took his job away.
    D
Now fist in hand he'll stand in line.
Declare his name and mark his time.
   C                                G
To some the only proof that they're alive.


CHORUS:
                   F
He could have been you.        _|
He could have been me.          |
                   D#           |    x 2
He could have been anybody      |
(Bb)            F               |
But he was born lucky.         _|


F    D#    Bb

F
He mad his first downpayment,
On a sharp Italian suit.
         D#                    Bb
He sewed razor blades into the lapels,
F
See him sweating on the dancefloor.
Coal dust oozing out of every pore.
  D#
A hard man with a hard life,
             Bb
And that's a story that he'll tell you,
        F
Down at Easter Road till his throat is raw.
On a Saturday, he knows the score,
D#
Till the whistle blows and,
                       Bb
The tempers with their colours fade away.

{CHORUS}

D    C    G
       D
On the helipads at Aberdeen
Bound for platforms drilling oil rich seas,
          C
Where the trawlers are getting fewer
      G
Every year.
       D
By the furnaces at Ravenscraig,
By the padlocks holding John Brown's gates,
       C                              G
In the desert, in the fields of South Armagh,
          D
Where the poppies grow,
Behind the Hampden roar,
Behind the drums in Genoa.
       C                                G
On the deck that rides a south Atlantic swell,
D
Born to fight out of the tightest corner.
You can bet on him with the odds against you,
C
They'll not put him down
                        G
No matter how hard they try.

{CHORUS}


Repeat

F    D#    Bb

till end.

Christer Varan

C.Varan@ET.TUDelft.NL

            
            
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