These Hands

F             C                  
   I wear the customary clothes 
     G
of my time,

     D                  Bb     Dm
Like Jesus did, with no reason 
     F      A#
not to die

F                 F7             
   Facing history,   with little 
        Bb
to no irony

     F            C           
Like Im some forgotten southern 
   Dm            Bb
city, Sherman razed

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F               C           Dm  
Still hid under thick smoke 
            Bb
after all these years

      F             F7            
These hands, are my fathers hands 
     Dm
but smaller

                Bb
Soaked in paint thinner,

                              Dm
Until theyre so dry coming together,

              Gm                
They make the sound of resisting 
      F
each other

         Gm          Bb       
A shrill squeal like two moving 
  F       Gm    F
rubber, tires touching

Gm   F        Gm   F
Hide nothing, hide nothing