David Gilmour - Out Of The Blue

^BOut of the ^Fblue, On the ^Bwings of a ^Fdove, A ^Bmessenger ^Fcomes, ^A, ^messenger, ^comes, C with the beating of ^Cdrums, ^Bbit's not a message of love

Our ^Bchildren are ^Fborn, and ^Bwe keep them ^Fwarm, they ^Bmust have the ^Fright to live in the ^Clight, ^Bbto be safe from the storm

And ^Bout of the ^Fblue, with ^Bwings on his ^Fheels, a ^Bmessenger ^Fcomes, bearing ^Cregrets ^Bbfor the time that he steals

But ^Bsteal it he ^Fwill, my ^Bchildren's and ^Fmine, ^Bagainst our ^Fdesires, against all our ^Cneeds, ^Bbour blood spilled like wine

^DmOver and ^Cover we ^Bcall, No one ^Dmhears... and further and ^Cfurther and ^Bfurther we ^Ffall... Though we ^Dmbrave it, we ^Csoon will have ^Bwait It is ^Dmclear that it's no dream at ^Call, our ^Blives are at ^Fstake

I^B cannot^F believe... nor ^Beven ^Fpretend... that the ^Bthunder I ^Fhear, will just ^Cdisappear, ^Bband the nightmare will end

So ^Bhold back the ^Ffire, because ^Bthis much is ^Ftrue, when ^Ball's said and ^Fdone, then ending will ^Ccome, ^Bbfrom out of the blue