Nightingale

Slow death to the nightingale

His voice would always fail

In tenement towers

and on rails

And all of these praising words

They all seem so absurd, so absurd

Your poverty you declare

The paint blisters on your stairs

The dampness in your bones is always there

And all of these praising words

Well, they all seem so absurd, so absurd

Ever thought that you would be

This washed up and lonely

This washed up and lonely

This lonely