Roots Rock Weirdoes

The [Em]town was hardly stirring, the night clubs all we[B7]re closed
[Am]Only a washed-up cov[Em]er band hi[C9]ttin' the [B9]stage at[Em] Joe's  [C9]     [B9]
The g[Em]uitar hit the first bar of "Secre[Am]t Agent Man"
A do[Am7]or in the back f[G]lew open, [B7]and into the room [Em]they ran!

[C][B]
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, u[Em]p from the underground
[D]Starved for a Tele or a[B] B3 -- an[G]y out-of-f[A]ashion s[Em]ound
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, o[G]ut of their[A7] holes they[Em] come
[D]Dressed up like it's[A] 19[Em]51.

Well, they l[Em]ooked the band gear over and they noted with de[B7]light
The [Am]guitar amp was a Ba[Em]ssman, and the ba[C9]ss man playe[B9]d uprigh[Em]t       [C9]          [B9]
Then they lo[Em]oked 'round at each other, and they cried, "We Are The[Am] Best!
For we l[Am7]ike unpopu[G]lar music, and j[B7]ust look at the way we[Em]'re dressed!"

[C][B2]
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, s[Em]lapping each others' backs
[D]Using the hepcat la[B]nguage they thoug[G]ht made them s[A]ound black  [Em]
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, s[G]moking their Ca[A7]mels straig[Em]ht
[D]Makin' sure there was n[A]othing up to [Em]date.

Now [Em]Joe, he was slow to anger, but that barkeep found it [B7]hard
Just to [Am]watch the air grow[Em] toxic with [C9]smoke and [B9]self-r[Em]egard     [C9]        [B9]
So he ju[Em]mped up on a barstool and he shouted out loud and cl[Am]ear:
"I don't[Am7] know just what [G]you weirdoes want, b[B7]ut I don't want [Em]you in here!"

The [Em]room grew deathly silent, then up from the stinking[B7] ranks
Rose a h[Am]omely social wo[Em]rker in a b[C9]owling s[B9]hirt marked "H[Em]ank"    [B9]
And dr[Em]opping the fake black diction, he said, "Since you enq[Am]uired,
Let [Am7]me take stock of wh[G]at we roots rock -- a[C9]hem! -- 'wei[B7]rdoes' [Em]desir[B7]e...[Em]."

Fish[Em]nets for every woman, and lipstick as red as fl[Am]ame
For every man a [G]tatoo, a[B] Chevy, and a dumb n[Em]ickname     [B]
Cigare[Em]ttes in every shirtsleeve, black leather on ev[Am]ery back,
Fanzines in every [G]bookstore, [B]LPs in each record [Em]rack.   [B]

Three ch[Em]ords in every pop song!  Four white guys in each[Am] band!
A ruthless media e[G]mpire to s[B]aturate this[Em] land
[B]Then, with o[Em]ur alt.country comrades, and our brothers in neo[Am]-swing,
We'll reclaim music [G]from the kids for ou[B]r fat dead crack[Em]er king!"

[C][B3]
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, C[Em]hrist!  They're everywhere!
A li[D]ttle Doc Pomus i[B]n their hearts and dark[G] pomade in t[A]heir hair  [Em]
[A7]Roots rock weirdoes, o[G]ut of their[A7] holes they[Em] come
[D]Dressed up like it's[A] 19[Em]51.