Best Tuning App Ever
MaddProfessor"
I’ve downloaded many tuning apps before and this one is by far the best. Easy to use, super user-friendly, and they have a bunch of fun different chords and songs to help you learn new music. I highly recommend.
Who Be Kind To easy guitar chords by Allen Ginsberg
N/A•
Guitar
Tuning
E A D G B E
Capo
Fret 1
Capo
Transpose
0
Capo
Gm
G
F
D
C
Em
Eb
Bb
F#m
Gm
G
F
D
C
Em
Eb
Bb
F#m
Verse 1
Who
be kind
to?
Who be
kind to?
Be
kind to
yourself,
only one,
and perishable
of many on
the planet.
Thou
art that
one that wishes
a soft
finger
tracing
the line
of
feel
ing from
nipple to
pubis.
One
that
wishes a tongue
to kiss your
armpit,
a
lip to kiss
your cheek
inside
your
white
ness
thigh
Be
kind
to yourself,
Harry,
because
unkindness comes
when the body explodes
Napalm,
cancer, and the
deathbed in
Vietnam is
a strange
place to
dream of trees
leaning over
and angry
American faces
grinning
with
sleepwalk terror
over your last
eye
Be
kind to
yourself
because
the
bliss
of your own
kindness
will
flood
the police tomorrow
Because the
cow weeps
in
the field
and the
mouse weeps
in the cat
hole
Be
kind
to
this place
which is your present
habitation
With Derek
and radar
tower
and
flower in
the ancient
brook
Be
kind
to your neighbor
who weeps
solid tears
on the television
sofa
He
has no other home
and hears
nothing
but the
hard voice
of telephones.
Click.
Bzzz.
Switch channel
and the inspired
melodrama
disappears
and he's left
alone for the night.
He disappears in
bed.
Be kind to
your disappearing
mother and father
gaz
ing out
the terrace window
as milk
truck and hearse
turn the
corner.
Be
kind
to the politician
weeping
in
the galleries
of
Whitehall,
Kremlin,
White
House
, Louvre,
Phoenix
City,
aged,
large -nosed,
angry,
nervously
dialing
the bold
voice
box
connected
to electrodes
underground
converging
through
wires vaster
than a
kitten's eye can
see on
the mushroom
-shaped
fear lobe
under the
ear of the
sleep
ing Dr.
Einstein,
crawling
with worms,
crawling
with worms,
crawling with
worms.
The
hour has
come.
Sick,
dissatisfied,
unloved,
the
bulky foreheads
of Captain,
Premier,
President,
Sir,
Comrade,
fear.
Be kind
to the fearful
one at your
side
who's remembering
the lamentations
of
the Bible
and the
prophecies of the
crucified Adam,
son
of all the
porters
and
charred men
of Belgravi
a.
Be kind
to yourself
who weep
under the
Moscow moon
and hide your
bliss hairs
under rain
coat and
suede Levi's,
for
this is
a
joy to
be born.
The kindness
received
through strange
eyeglasses
on a bus through
Kensington,
the
finger touch
of the Londoner
on your thumb
that
borrows
light from your
cigarette,
the smile
of morning
at Newcastle
Central Station
when long
-haired Tom
Blonde husband
greets the bearded
stranger of
telephones,
the boom
-bom
b that bounces
in the joyful
bowels
as
the Liverpool minstrels
of
Cavernsink
raise
up their
joyful
voices
and
guitars in
electric Afric.
Hur
rah for
Jerus
alem.
The saints
come marching
in.
Twist
and shout
and
gates of
Eden
are
named
in Albion
again.
Hope
sings a
black psalm
from Nigeria
and
a white
psalm echoes
in Detroit
and
re -echoes
amplified from
Nottingham
to Prague
and a Chinese
psalm
will
be heard
if
we all live
our
lives out
for the next six
decades.
Be kind
to the Chinese
psalm
in the red
transistor in
your breast.
Be kind to
Monk Thelonious
in the five
spot
who plays
lone chord
bangs on
his vast piano
lost
in space
on a stool
and
hearing himself
in this nightclub
universe.
Be
kind to the
heroes
who have
lost their names
in the newspaper
And
hear
only their own
supplication
for the peaceful
kiss of
sex
in the giant
auditoriums
of the planet
Name
less
voices crying
for kindness
in the orchestra
Screaming
in
anguish that
bliss come
true
And
sparrows
sing another
hundred years
to white -haired
babes
and
poets be
fools of
their own desire.
Oh,
Anacreon and
Angelic
Shelley,
guide
these new
-nippled
generations
on
spaceships
to Mars'
next universe.
The prayer is
to man
and
girl,
the only
gods,
the only
lords of
kingdoms
of feeling,
Christs
of their own
living ribs.
Bicycle
chain and
machine gun,
fear,
sneer,
and smell
cold
logic
of the
dream bomb
have come
to
Saigon,
Johannesburg,
Domin
ica City,
Phnom Penh,
Pentagon,
Paris,
and Lhasa.
Ah,
be kind
to the universe
of self
that
trembles
and shudders and thrills
in twentieth
century,
that
opens its
eyes and belly
and breast
chained with
flesh
to feel the
myriad flowers
of bliss
that
I am
to thee
a
dream,
a
dream.
I
don't want
to be alone.
I want to
know that I am loved.
I
want the
orgy of
our
flesh,
orgy
of all eyes
happy,
orgy of the
soul
kissing
and blessing
it
s mortal
grown body,
orgy of
tenderness beneath
the neck,
orgy
of kindness
to thigh
and vagina.
Desire
given with
meat,
hand, and
cock.
Desire taken
with mouth
and ass.
Desire
returned
to the last
sigh.
Be kind
to the poor soul
that cries in a
crack of the pavement
because
he has no body.
Prayers to
the ghosts and
demons,
the
lacklustres of
capitals and
congresses
who make sadistic
noises on
the ra
dio.
...statue
destroyers
and
tank captains,
unhappy
murderers
in Mekong
and Stanleyville.
For a
new kind
of man has
come
to his
bliss.
To end
the Cold
War,
he
has borne against
his own
kind
flesh
since
the days
of the snake."
Thank you.
Thank
you.
Thank
you.
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