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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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And you tell me you're building your house deep in the desert |
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Are you living for nothing now, 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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Well 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 stood in the station and met every train |
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But she never showed up I'm Lili Marlene |
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So you treated some woman to a flake of your life |
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And when she got home 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 Jane's awake |
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She sends her regards. |
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And what can I tell you oh what can I tell you |
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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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And if you ever come by here, |
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be it for Jane or for me |
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I want you to know your enemy's sleeping |
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I want you to know your woman is 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 so we never really tried, ooh |
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And Jane came by with a lock of your hair |
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Said you gave it to her |
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That night when you planned to go clear |
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Sincerely, a friend |
