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 Massachusettes 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 its 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
