Phil Ochs, a political song-writer for the most part, wrote this song which, to me, seemed to come from out of the clear blue sky. But then I realized that this is just a scathing indictment of high society. The ending is the best part. But there are other great parts, too. "counting notches on his thigh bone." Haha, that dude is just bored as fuck. It's some really remarkable writing, with a great melody to boot. I sit and listen to this for an hour straight sometimes, when I've been drinking. I found a tab of it, too, if you want to play it on guitar G cg The fire breathing rebels arrive at the party early, C d Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur. C dg -em Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the lords. E dg em Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour. C dg em And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored. Am d And my shoulders had to shrug Am As I crawl beneath the rug D g And retune my piano. The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume, She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings. And she asks how are you as she offers them a drink, The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink. And she promises to talk to you, if you promise not to think. And my shoulders had to shrug, as I crawled beneath the rug And retuned my piano. The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present, She surrounds herself with those who would surrender. Floating in the flattery shes a trophy-prize ...
Phil Ochs - The Party
Monday, January 21, 2013
Phil Ochs - The Party Video Clips. Duration : 7.93 Mins.
Phil Ochs, a political song-writer for the most part, wrote this song which, to me, seemed to come from out of the clear blue sky. But then I realized that this is just a scathing indictment of high society. The ending is the best part. But there are other great parts, too. "counting notches on his thigh bone." Haha, that dude is just bored as fuck. It's some really remarkable writing, with a great melody to boot. I sit and listen to this for an hour straight sometimes, when I've been drinking. I found a tab of it, too, if you want to play it on guitar G cg The fire breathing rebels arrive at the party early, C d Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur. C dg -em Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the lords. E dg em Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour. C dg em And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored. Am d And my shoulders had to shrug Am As I crawl beneath the rug D g And retune my piano. The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume, She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings. And she asks how are you as she offers them a drink, The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink. And she promises to talk to you, if you promise not to think. And my shoulders had to shrug, as I crawled beneath the rug And retuned my piano. The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present, She surrounds herself with those who would surrender. Floating in the flattery shes a trophy-prize ...
Phil Ochs, a political song-writer for the most part, wrote this song which, to me, seemed to come from out of the clear blue sky. But then I realized that this is just a scathing indictment of high society. The ending is the best part. But there are other great parts, too. "counting notches on his thigh bone." Haha, that dude is just bored as fuck. It's some really remarkable writing, with a great melody to boot. I sit and listen to this for an hour straight sometimes, when I've been drinking. I found a tab of it, too, if you want to play it on guitar G cg The fire breathing rebels arrive at the party early, C d Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur. C dg -em Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the lords. E dg em Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour. C dg em And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored. Am d And my shoulders had to shrug Am As I crawl beneath the rug D g And retune my piano. The hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume, She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings. And she asks how are you as she offers them a drink, The countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink. And she promises to talk to you, if you promise not to think. And my shoulders had to shrug, as I crawled beneath the rug And retuned my piano. The beauty of the hour is blazing in the present, She surrounds herself with those who would surrender. Floating in the flattery shes a trophy-prize ...
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