Fitzgerald - Frank Black

It’s sad to see your art hanging on the wall

So many pictures there, yours the best of all

I like the Indian, the one in ballpoint ink

In ancient Massachusetts long before you called

You traded him and many others for a drink

You fingers thick from hammers

Well, it really makes you think

And then my father would fill your glass 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