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