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 Massachusetts   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 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