Fix My Blues

C# C# Ain't I fair, ain't I kind, and I�??m paid to feel fine G#m B but I haven't spent a dime since I met you C# Your breasts are like two wrists that I handcuffed to my dick G#m B in a subculture of love and refraction C#m F# And I die every morning again, B G#m Me at my worst is fun for them C#m F# And I die with a feeding tube C#m F# While you try to fix my blues C# Your city's so unclean in a Washington machine G#m B and your face is like a cage and two of them C# And your sentiment is gone and it's now enslaved by gods G#m B while I strum my broken legs like a banjo C#m F# And I die every morning again, B G#m Me at my worst is fun for them C#m F# And I die with a feeding tube C#m F# While you try to fix my blues C#m G# C#m But when I feel my heart retract into my soul A F# It makes an ego seem more valuable than gold C#m F# And I die every morning again, B G#m Me at my worst is fun for them C#m F# And I die with a feeding tube C#m F# While you try to fix my blues C# G#m B