A                       C#m
When I see a face of anonymity
  A                              C#m
Crying on the street, it does something to me
  A              G#       D
I make believe malady, tragedy

   A                        C#
Flowers on the grave is a beautiful thing
         A                                         D
'Cause flowers on the grave still means they're getting something
                 A                           G#
But when the flowers ain't there, and the grave is bare
             D
I think of old dead bones that don't get theirs

             C#m                 A
I think of all the butchers and all the beef
            C#m              A
I think of all the flies in all the hеat
            C#m                C#m       C#m
I think of all the dying and dying and dying

   D                  A
Dying and dying and decomposing
 C#m                   D
Dying and dying's for real

      A                          C#m
Whеn I see the damned in their dire straights
   A                                D
Damning all the men with those American names
              A
I say "don't damn the man, damn your hand
              G#
For makin' a fist and shaking it all around"
        D                 D
Damn the hand, damn your hand

             C#m                    A
Oh, you can damn the butchers and damn the beef
             C#m               A
Oh, you can damn the flies in all the heat
            C#m                C#m        C#m
Or you can damn the dying and dying and dying

[Solo] A  C#m  Bm  F

   A                  C#m
Dying and dying and decomposing
  A                    D
Dying and dying's for real
   A                C#m
Dying and dying and pounds of posy
    A              D
Dying and dying's forever

      A                        B          E
When I hear the crying of a siren in the night
            A                        B                 E
I think of piles of writhing people, fighting for their lives
           A                 G#m
I see an image of a body, broken and beet red
            D                                  Cm Dm Em
I hear the a cappella angels singing for the dead

             C#m                      A
I think of all the butchers and all the beef
             C#m                    A
I think of all the flies in all the heat
            C#m      C         E              A
I think of all the dirt that lays a bed for bones
            C#m      C             E              A
I think of all the words that get written on the stones
             C#m     C            E              A
I think of all the surf that come crashing over souls
             C#m
I think of all the dying
 C#m
All the dying
 C#m
All the dying
 C#m
All the dying