Poor Fractured Atlas

D D D D Dm Dm Dm Dm D He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun Dm To try and recapture his anger G He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs Em A Until he begins to feel younger F#dim Em But back at his desk in the city we find F#dim Em Our trembling punch-drunken fighter B7 Em B7 Em Who can't find the strength now to punish the length G A Of the ribbon in his little typewriter * G A Poor fractured Atlas A D Threw himself across the mattress G A Waving his withering pencil A D As if it were a pirate's cutlass Dm C G I'm almost certain Bb A D He's trying to increase his burden Em B7 Em A He said "That's how the child in me planned it, A7 D A C G Bb A... A woman wouldn't understand it" I believe there was something that I wanted to say Before I conclude this epistle But you would forgive me for holding my tongue 'Cause Man made the blade and the pistol Yes, Man made the waterfall over the dam To temper his tantrum with magic Now you can't be sure of that tent of azure Since he punched a hole in the fabric G A Poor fractured Atlas A D Threw himself across the mattress G A Waving his withering pencil A D As if it were a pirate's cutlass Dm C G I'm almost certain Bb A D He's trying to increase his burden Em B7 Em A He said "That's how the child in me planned it, A7 D A C G Bb A... A woman wouldn't understand it" D A D A7 D A C G Bb A D A D... A woman wouldn't understand it