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