Fitzgerald lyrics

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 p*ss
And now you drink someplace where no one bothers you

Oh, Fitzy
Oh, Fitzy
Oh, Fitzy
Oh, Fitzy
Oh, Fitzy
Oh, Fitzy