Gregory Alan Isakov
Fire Escape
New York now was nothing but an ice-capade
A cigarette, a fire-escape
Walked this line
With dust in our pockets for the Bedford station line to take us
Crazy
The drunkard playing the Casio
We're quiet
Every time we start starin' up
And hear
All the loneliest crickets play their violins
Oh, what a shame
A subway ride was never meant to last