Chords for Paul Morley - Lost for Words Pt. 2 (Late Night Tales: MGMT)
Tempo:
115.2 bpm
Chords used:
E
G
Tuning:Standard Tuning (EADGBE)Capo:+0fret
Start Jamming...
You're listening to Late [E] Night Tales.
And now for the second part of the four-part story, Lost for Words, The Ghost of Arthur Rambeau.
Written and read by me, Paul Morley.
A word could be silent.
A word could make a noise.
Like a ghost.
There it is.
There it isn't.
It's true.
It's the truth.
It's all made up.
It's a lie.
You believe it.
You don't believe it.
It exists.
It does not exist.
To write the perfect sentence, you need to understand how these noisy, speechless ghosts haunt the mind and pollute reality.
Making it what it is.
Tremendous trouble.
A crazy hash.
A mass of illusions and transparent surfaces.
And provisional certainties.
And exploded schemes and cagey personalities.
And monstrous visions.
And idle talk and exotic disintegrations.
And charming things.
And sleazy genius.
And social conjunctions.
And obscene gestures.
And helpless love.
And implausible incidents and sinister ambiguities.
And shattered windows and extended anecdotes.
And plus vulgarities.
And subtle enslavements.
And strong opinions and absurd remarks and newspaper scandals.
And giddy menace.
And grand booming nonsense.
And mad gloomy farce.
And indescribable events.
It might begin like this.
What do you want?
Stop where you are.
You're positively dripping.
When the room is silent.
The daylight almost gone.
The rain it never stops.
It's the devil's rain.
And I shall go on talking in a low voice.
While the sea sounds in the distance.
And overhead the great black flood of wind polishes the bright stars.
A word brings with it all of time.
And all of the times it's been used.
And all the times it will be used.
A word is alive.
No matter how many times it's [G] been used.
How mundanely or roughly or sublimely.
At the end of a journey.
At the onset of violence for no good reason.
Just to pass the day.
To ask the way.
To ask for nothing in particular.
To answer questions.
To say hello.
To say goodbye.
To remember things.
To forget things.
To get on your nerves.
To choose something from the shelf.
To make arrangements to meet.
To solve various mysteries.
To compose monthly reports on nothing in particular.
To begin perhaps a campaign.
To retake the universe.
Because words are all we have.
Use words to say.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Made of dreams of other nights.
Better days.
Language is made up of millions of clamorous, close-mouthed ghosts.
As inhuman as glass.
Reflecting each other.
And shadowing each other.
Getting to know each other.
Avoiding each other.
And never knowing where they came from.
Setting off for an unknown destination.
And so it goes.
[N]
And now for the second part of the four-part story, Lost for Words, The Ghost of Arthur Rambeau.
Written and read by me, Paul Morley.
A word could be silent.
A word could make a noise.
Like a ghost.
There it is.
There it isn't.
It's true.
It's the truth.
It's all made up.
It's a lie.
You believe it.
You don't believe it.
It exists.
It does not exist.
To write the perfect sentence, you need to understand how these noisy, speechless ghosts haunt the mind and pollute reality.
Making it what it is.
Tremendous trouble.
A crazy hash.
A mass of illusions and transparent surfaces.
And provisional certainties.
And exploded schemes and cagey personalities.
And monstrous visions.
And idle talk and exotic disintegrations.
And charming things.
And sleazy genius.
And social conjunctions.
And obscene gestures.
And helpless love.
And implausible incidents and sinister ambiguities.
And shattered windows and extended anecdotes.
And plus vulgarities.
And subtle enslavements.
And strong opinions and absurd remarks and newspaper scandals.
And giddy menace.
And grand booming nonsense.
And mad gloomy farce.
And indescribable events.
It might begin like this.
What do you want?
Stop where you are.
You're positively dripping.
When the room is silent.
The daylight almost gone.
The rain it never stops.
It's the devil's rain.
And I shall go on talking in a low voice.
While the sea sounds in the distance.
And overhead the great black flood of wind polishes the bright stars.
A word brings with it all of time.
And all of the times it's been used.
And all the times it will be used.
A word is alive.
No matter how many times it's [G] been used.
How mundanely or roughly or sublimely.
At the end of a journey.
At the onset of violence for no good reason.
Just to pass the day.
To ask the way.
To ask for nothing in particular.
To answer questions.
To say hello.
To say goodbye.
To remember things.
To forget things.
To get on your nerves.
To choose something from the shelf.
To make arrangements to meet.
To solve various mysteries.
To compose monthly reports on nothing in particular.
To begin perhaps a campaign.
To retake the universe.
Because words are all we have.
Use words to say.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Made of dreams of other nights.
Better days.
Language is made up of millions of clamorous, close-mouthed ghosts.
As inhuman as glass.
Reflecting each other.
And shadowing each other.
Getting to know each other.
Avoiding each other.
And never knowing where they came from.
Setting off for an unknown destination.
And so it goes.
[N]
Key:
E
G
E
G
E
G
E
G
You're listening to Late [E] Night Tales. _ _ _ _
And now for the second part of the four-part story, Lost for Words, The Ghost of Arthur Rambeau.
Written and read by me, Paul Morley.
_ _ A word could be silent.
A word could make a noise.
Like a ghost.
There it is.
There it isn't.
It's true.
It's the truth.
It's all made up.
It's a lie.
You believe it.
You don't believe it.
It exists.
It does not exist.
_ To write the perfect sentence, you need to understand how these noisy, speechless ghosts haunt the mind and pollute reality.
_ Making it what it is. _
Tremendous trouble.
A crazy hash.
A mass of illusions and transparent surfaces.
And provisional certainties.
And exploded schemes and cagey personalities.
And monstrous visions.
And idle talk and exotic disintegrations.
And charming things.
And sleazy genius.
And social conjunctions.
And obscene gestures.
And helpless love.
And implausible incidents and sinister ambiguities.
And shattered windows and extended anecdotes.
And plus vulgarities.
And subtle enslavements.
And strong opinions and absurd remarks and newspaper scandals.
And giddy menace.
And grand booming nonsense.
And mad gloomy farce.
And _ indescribable events.
_ It might begin like this.
_ What do you want?
Stop where you are.
You're positively dripping.
_ _ When the room is silent.
The daylight almost gone.
The rain it never stops.
_ It's the devil's rain.
_ And I shall go on talking in a low voice.
While the sea sounds in the distance.
And overhead the great black flood of wind polishes the bright stars. _ _
A word brings with it all of time.
And all of the times it's been used.
And all the times it will be used.
A word is alive.
No matter how many times it's [G] been used.
How mundanely or roughly or sublimely.
At the end of a journey.
At the onset of violence for no good reason.
Just to pass the day.
To ask the way.
To ask for nothing in particular.
To answer questions.
To say hello.
To say goodbye.
To remember things.
To forget things.
To get on your nerves.
To choose something from the shelf.
To make arrangements to meet.
To solve various mysteries.
To compose monthly reports on nothing in particular.
To begin perhaps a campaign.
To retake the universe.
_ _ Because words are all we have.
Use words to say.
Never but dream the days and nights.
_ _ _ _ _ Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Made of dreams of other nights.
Better days.
_ _ Language is made up of millions of clamorous, close-mouthed ghosts.
As inhuman as glass.
Reflecting each other.
And shadowing each other.
Getting to know each other.
Avoiding each other.
And never knowing where they came from.
_ Setting off for an unknown destination.
And so it goes. _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ [N] _
And now for the second part of the four-part story, Lost for Words, The Ghost of Arthur Rambeau.
Written and read by me, Paul Morley.
_ _ A word could be silent.
A word could make a noise.
Like a ghost.
There it is.
There it isn't.
It's true.
It's the truth.
It's all made up.
It's a lie.
You believe it.
You don't believe it.
It exists.
It does not exist.
_ To write the perfect sentence, you need to understand how these noisy, speechless ghosts haunt the mind and pollute reality.
_ Making it what it is. _
Tremendous trouble.
A crazy hash.
A mass of illusions and transparent surfaces.
And provisional certainties.
And exploded schemes and cagey personalities.
And monstrous visions.
And idle talk and exotic disintegrations.
And charming things.
And sleazy genius.
And social conjunctions.
And obscene gestures.
And helpless love.
And implausible incidents and sinister ambiguities.
And shattered windows and extended anecdotes.
And plus vulgarities.
And subtle enslavements.
And strong opinions and absurd remarks and newspaper scandals.
And giddy menace.
And grand booming nonsense.
And mad gloomy farce.
And _ indescribable events.
_ It might begin like this.
_ What do you want?
Stop where you are.
You're positively dripping.
_ _ When the room is silent.
The daylight almost gone.
The rain it never stops.
_ It's the devil's rain.
_ And I shall go on talking in a low voice.
While the sea sounds in the distance.
And overhead the great black flood of wind polishes the bright stars. _ _
A word brings with it all of time.
And all of the times it's been used.
And all the times it will be used.
A word is alive.
No matter how many times it's [G] been used.
How mundanely or roughly or sublimely.
At the end of a journey.
At the onset of violence for no good reason.
Just to pass the day.
To ask the way.
To ask for nothing in particular.
To answer questions.
To say hello.
To say goodbye.
To remember things.
To forget things.
To get on your nerves.
To choose something from the shelf.
To make arrangements to meet.
To solve various mysteries.
To compose monthly reports on nothing in particular.
To begin perhaps a campaign.
To retake the universe.
_ _ Because words are all we have.
Use words to say.
Never but dream the days and nights.
_ _ _ _ _ Never but dream the days and nights.
Never but dream the days and nights.
Made of dreams of other nights.
Better days.
_ _ Language is made up of millions of clamorous, close-mouthed ghosts.
As inhuman as glass.
Reflecting each other.
And shadowing each other.
Getting to know each other.
Avoiding each other.
And never knowing where they came from.
_ Setting off for an unknown destination.
And so it goes. _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ [N] _