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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 |
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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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Ah, 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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And 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 Jane's awake, she sends her regards |
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And 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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If you ever come by here for Jane or for me |
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Well, your enemy is sleeping and his 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 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 |