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It's four in the morning, the end of December |
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I'm writing you now just 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 when you planned to go clear |
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Did you ever go clear? |
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The last time I 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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When she came back |
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She was nobody's wife. |
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And I see you there, with a rose in your teeth |
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One more thin gypsy thief |
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Well I see Jane's awake |
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She sends her regards. |
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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 that you stood in my way. |
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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 free, yes |
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And thanks, for the trouble you took, from her eyes |
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I thought it was there, for good, 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 |