Frank Black
Fitzgerald
It?s sad to see your artHanging on the wallSo many pictures thereBut yours the best of allI like the IndianThe one in ballpoint inkIn ancient MassachusettsLong before you calledYou traded him and many othersFor a drinkYour fingers thick from hammersWell, it really makes you thinkAnd then my fatherWould fill your glass so tallWhen I was a kidI gophered in your crewAlways a kind wordAnd you showed me what to doAnd living hammeredWell, it's always hit or missBut through your cigarette stained beardYour love rang trueSongtexteAnd though you are so lovedIt had to come to thisYou got shut offBecause you always stink of pissAnd now you drink someplaceWhere no one bothers youOh, Fitzy, oh, FitzyOh, Fitzy, oh, FitzyOh, Fitzy, oh, Fitzy
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