Phil Ochs – The Men Behind The Guns (Guitar)

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1. Let's drink a toast to the admiral,

      Am                              C
    and here's to the captain bold,

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    and glory more for the commodore,

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    when the deeds of might are told.

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    They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,

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    when the great shells roar and pound,

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    and never they fear when the foe is near,

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    to lay their orders down.

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But off with your hats and three times three for every sailor's son,

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for the men below who fight the foe, the men behind the guns :

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oh, the men behind the guns.

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2. Their hearts a-pounding heavy when

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    they swing to port once more,

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    with never enough of the greenback stuff,

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    they start for the leave ashore.

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    And you'd think perhaps the blue-blouse chaps

         Am                C
    had better clothes to wear,

            Em            Am
    for the uniforms of officers

            C            G
    could hardly be compared.

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Warriors bold with straps of gold that dazzle like the sun,

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outshine the common sailor boys, the lads who serve the guns :

        Am     G        Am
oh, the men behind the guns.

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3. But say not a word till the shot is heard,

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    that tells the fight is on,

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    and the angry sound of another round

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    that says there must be guns.

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    Over the deep and the deadly sweep

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    of the fire and the bursting shell,

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    where the very air is a mad despair,

           C                G
    the throes of a living hell.

      C                   F     C                        Em
But down and deep in a mighty ship unseen by the midday sun

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you'll find the boys who make the noise, the lads who serve the guns :

         Am   G        Am
oh, the men behind the guns.

        Am                   G
4. And well they know the cyclone blow,

    Am                        C
    loose from the cannon's steel.

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    and they know the hull of the enemy ship

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    will quiver with the peal.

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    And the decks will rock with the lightning shock

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    and shake with the great recoil,

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    oh, the sea grows red with the blood of the dead

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    and swallows up her spoil.

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But not until the final ship has made her final run,

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can we give the rest to the very best : the lads who serve the guns,

        Am    G        Am
oh, the men behind the guns.