Artist: Andy Chango
Intro (?ahhh? ahhh? AHHH!!!?)? F#m
Some folks [A]ride like the wind,
With the [D]whispering pines to [A]guide them,
And the [D]burning light in[A]side them
Keeps them [E]warm in the snow.
Others [A]fear the sounds they hear,
Make [D]banditos out of [A]molehills,
Fill their [A]hearts with po[D]rcupine quills,
They're dead and [E]buried long before they go.
[F#m]Charlton Heston movies are no [A]longer in demand,
And [F#m]his immortal soul may lay f[A]orever in the sand,
The [D]angels wouldn't take him up to h[A]eaven like he planned,
'Cuz they cou[E]ldn't pry that gun from his C[Bm]old Dead H[F#m]and.
It takes a [E]cold, dead hand to [D]decide to pull the [A]trigger,
Takes a [E]cold, dead heart, and as n[D]ear as I can f[A]igure,
With your [C#m]cold, dead aim, you're trying to [D]prove your dick is [A]bigger
But we [E]know,
Your [D]chariot may [Bm]not be [A]swinging [F#m]low.
Cold, Dead [E]Hand.
Cold, Dead [A]Hand.
Cold, Dead [E]Hand.
Cold, Dead [A]hand.
You're a [F#m]big, big [E]man with a [F#m]little bitty [E]gland,
So you [F#m]need something [E]bigger just to [F#m]fill your...Cold Dead [F#m]Hand.
Imagine [A]if the Lord were here, and he [D]knew what you've been t[A]hinkin',
Would his [D]sacred heart be si[A]nkin', into the c[E]anyon of dismay?
And on the [A]ones who sell the guns, he'd sick the [D]vultures and coy[A]otes,
Only the [D]devil's true [A]devotees
Could profit[E]eer from pain and fear.
(Repeat verses 3-5)
You're a [F#m]big, big [E]man with a [F#m]little bitty [E]gland,
So you [F#m]need something [E]bigger with a [F#m]hairpin [E]trigger,
You don't [F#m]wanna get [E]caught with your [F#m]trousers [E]down,
When the [F#m]psycho [E]killer [F#m]comes [E]around.
So you [F#m]make your [E]home like a [F#m]Thunderd[E]ome,
And you're [F#m]always [E]packin' every[F#m]where you [E]roam,
And the [F#m]psychos [E]win no matter [F#m]what you [E]do,
'Cuz they're [F#m]gonna buy [E]way more [F#m]guns than [E]you.
(double time)
And [F#m]while you're [E]stumblin' [F#m]out of [E]bed,
they [F#m]put five [E]rounds in the [F#m]back of your [E]head,
Or you [F#m]get depr[E]essed 'cuz the [F#m]money went [E]South,
and you [F#m]put your own [E]shotgun [F#m]in your [E]mouth,
and your [F#m]kids walk [E]in and they [F#m]find you [E]there,
like a [F#m]headless [E]lump in your [F#m]underwe[E]ar,
and they [F#m]move the [E]gun and it [F#m]kills them [E]too,
and your [F#m]wife just [E]doesn't know [F#m]what to [E]do,
so she [F#m]takes a [E]hand-grenade f[F#m]rom her [E]shoe,
and she [F#m]pulls the pin.
And it's all on you...
And your [Bm]Cold, Dead [F#m]Hand.
(final notes? D-C#-B-A-G#-F#)
Some folks [A]ride like the wind,
With the [D]whispering pines to [A]guide them,
And the [D]burning light in[A]side them
Keeps them [E]warm in the snow.
Others [A]fear the sounds they hear,
Make [D]banditos out of [A]molehills,
Fill their [A]hearts with po[D]rcupine quills,
They're dead and [E]buried long before they go.
[F#m]Charlton Heston movies are no [A]longer in demand,
And [F#m]his immortal soul may lay f[A]orever in the sand,
The [D]angels wouldn't take him up to h[A]eaven like he planned,
'Cuz they cou[E]ldn't pry that gun from his C[Bm]old Dead H[F#m]and.
It takes a [E]cold, dead hand to [D]decide to pull the [A]trigger,
Takes a [E]cold, dead heart, and as n[D]ear as I can f[A]igure,
With your [C#m]cold, dead aim, you're trying to [D]prove your dick is [A]bigger
But we [E]know,
Your [D]chariot may [Bm]not be [A]swinging [F#m]low.
Cold, Dead [E]Hand.
Cold, Dead [A]Hand.
Cold, Dead [E]Hand.
Cold, Dead [A]hand.
You're a [F#m]big, big [E]man with a [F#m]little bitty [E]gland,
So you [F#m]need something [E]bigger just to [F#m]fill your...Cold Dead [F#m]Hand.
Imagine [A]if the Lord were here, and he [D]knew what you've been t[A]hinkin',
Would his [D]sacred heart be si[A]nkin', into the c[E]anyon of dismay?
And on the [A]ones who sell the guns, he'd sick the [D]vultures and coy[A]otes,
Only the [D]devil's true [A]devotees
Could profit[E]eer from pain and fear.
(Repeat verses 3-5)
You're a [F#m]big, big [E]man with a [F#m]little bitty [E]gland,
So you [F#m]need something [E]bigger with a [F#m]hairpin [E]trigger,
You don't [F#m]wanna get [E]caught with your [F#m]trousers [E]down,
When the [F#m]psycho [E]killer [F#m]comes [E]around.
So you [F#m]make your [E]home like a [F#m]Thunderd[E]ome,
And you're [F#m]always [E]packin' every[F#m]where you [E]roam,
And the [F#m]psychos [E]win no matter [F#m]what you [E]do,
'Cuz they're [F#m]gonna buy [E]way more [F#m]guns than [E]you.
(double time)
And [F#m]while you're [E]stumblin' [F#m]out of [E]bed,
they [F#m]put five [E]rounds in the [F#m]back of your [E]head,
Or you [F#m]get depr[E]essed 'cuz the [F#m]money went [E]South,
and you [F#m]put your own [E]shotgun [F#m]in your [E]mouth,
and your [F#m]kids walk [E]in and they [F#m]find you [E]there,
like a [F#m]headless [E]lump in your [F#m]underwe[E]ar,
and they [F#m]move the [E]gun and it [F#m]kills them [E]too,
and your [F#m]wife just [E]doesn't know [F#m]what to [E]do,
so she [F#m]takes a [E]hand-grenade f[F#m]rom her [E]shoe,
and she [F#m]pulls the pin.
And it's all on you...
And your [Bm]Cold, Dead [F#m]Hand.
(final notes? D-C#-B-A-G#-F#)
Used chords
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