Fitzgerald

It's sad to see your art Hanging on the wall So many pictures there But yours the best of all I like the Indian The one in ballpoint ink In ancient Ma*sachusetts Long before you called You traded him and many others For a drink Your fingers thick from hammers Well, it really makes you think And then my father Would fill your gla*s so tall When I was a kid I gophered in your crew Always a kind word And you showed me what to do And living hammered Well, it's always hit or miss But through your cigarette stained beard Your love rang true And though you are so loved It had to come to this You got shut off Because you always stink of piss And now you drink someplace Where no one bothers you Oh, Fitzy, oh, Fitzy Oh, Fitzy, oh, Fitzy Oh, Fitzy, oh, Fitzy