It’s four in the morning, the end of December
\nI’m writing you now just to see if you’re better
\nNew York is cold, but I like where I’m living
\nThere’s music on Clinton Street all through the evening.
\nI hear that you’re building your little house deep in the desert
\nYou’re living for nothing now, I hope you’re keeping some kind of record.<\/p>\n
Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
\nShe said that you gave it to her
\nThat night that you planned to go clear
\nDid you ever go clear?<\/p>\n
Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
\nYour famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
\nYou’d been to the station to meet every train
\nAnd you came home without Lili Marlene<\/p>\n
And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
\nAnd when she came back she was nobody’s wife.<\/p>\n
Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
\nOne more thin gypsy thief
\nWell I see Jane’s awake\u00a0\u2013
\nShe sends her regards.<\/p>\n
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
\nWhat can I possibly say?
\nI guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
\nI’m glad you stood in my way.<\/p>\n
If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
\nYour enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.<\/p>\n
Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
\nI thought it was there for good so I never tried.<\/p>\n
And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
\nShe said that you gave it to her
\nThat night that you planned to go clear\u00a0\u2013<\/p>\n
Sincerely, L. Cohen<\/p>\n