Little Comets - His thunder

^F#mI’m a^E mat and^F#m I still r^Eetain ^F#mAccumulated st^Eories of the ^C#mtawdry years ^F#mI’ve been stampe^Ed out by^F#m rum-fuell^Eed boots ^F#mThe brute, us ^Ehiding un^C#mder stairs. Waiting for his t^Ahunde^Er to ^C#mhit Waiting for his t^Ahunde^Er and thinking ^C#mis this it? Waiting for his t^Ahunde^Er to ^C#mshout Waiting for his t^Ahunde^Er to ^C#mtire itself out.

^AEach bruise I u^Ese as a ch^Aronicle of a^Ell that you ga^Fmve me now ^AAnd every sc^Ear a remin^Ader of the p^Eower that you ^C#mhad The saddest part about the darkest hours The implication that the fault was ours.