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