1. Mr. Kahn

From the recording Son of A Hero


In the bowels of Chicago
Where the laundry flips its mills
Where the streets are owned by the invalids
There's glass webbed at every door
Where the meter maids are undressing
Themselves for the alcoholic men
Carrying cardboard hearts with gentle pleas
Pissing on the church steps where Mary lays
It was the sun sun sun set
woke him to the best ever wind
To the station, he'd won the lottery (out with the cyanide)
G        Bb         A
Mr Kahn scratched his ticket to the morgue
Where hope has all gone capsized
And dire mars pok the people's skins
Where there's dollars shaved deep beneath your fingers
Where he worked and barely sinned
Perhaps it was brother in the mustache
The old boy couldn't make a job last
Hiw kids they were far too young
Just teetghin, his wife always seemed the angel 
Someone bought the poisoned water
And poured it to his vodka tall
When he changed the television station
No one must have been looking
It was the moon the moon the moon charm
That shined on his breathless skin
In the parlents of our times
When money rolls thicker than blood
And blood tricks thick for money
Its hard to know, there's so many people to say it was
D   G     D    G    D   Emin     G     F
Poor Poor Mr Kahn you see
He tipped the clerk twice his pay
Whist whist whistled the land of the free
Mr Kahn scratched his ticket to the morgue