| It's four in the morning, the end of December
|
| I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
|
| New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
|
| There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening
|
| I hear that you're building
|
| Your little house deep in the desert
|
| You're living for nothing now
|
| I hope you're keeping some kind of record
|
| Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
|
| She said that you gave it to her
|
| That night that you planned to go clear
|
| Did you ever go clear?
|
| Oh, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
|
| Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
|
| You'd been to the station to meet every train
|
| But then you came home without Lili Marlene
|
| And you treated my woman
|
| To a flake of your life
|
| And when she came back
|
| She was nobody's wife
|
| Well, I see you there with the rose in your teeth
|
| One more thin gypsy thief
|
| Well I see Jane's awake
|
| She sends her regard
|
| And what can I tell you my brother, my killer?
|
| What can I possibly say?
|
| I guess that I miss you. |
| I guess I forgive you
|
| I'm glad you stood in my way
|
| If you ever come by here
|
| For Jane or for me
|
| Well, your enemy is sleeping
|
| And his woman is free
|
| Yes, and thanks for the trouble
|
| You took from her eyes
|
| I thought it was there for good
|
| So I never tried
|
| And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
|
| She said that you gave it to her
|
| That night that you planned to go clear
|
| Sincerely, L. Cohen |