My first wife Claudette
Seldom left the flat
Without her bathing suit
As often as not
She also wore a classical guitar
She couldn't parlez anglais
From some far away place such as Canada
And I don't think she loved me
She called me l'assassin des chansons
I guess it means the murderer of songs
Drawn to her hips
She wanted my scar face
The whole thing was physical
Isn't it always
She moved like a lyric
From her dark unexpectable form
She wept for the trees
And she loved violin
These thing that weren't me
I could never have been
I loathe the moon
It's jealousy callous and pure
So we went to the station
To get to the concert
A lousy old poet
Who sang til his lungs hurt
She danced like a foriegner
And I was alone in the world
When they dropped the last curtain
I got her attention
Her thoughts were important
She spoke them in French
Then her face fell like soufflé at the slam of a door
And those were the reasons
And that was claudette
She never caught the train
Back to where she once slept
So I rode home alone with my eyes fixed on the forest
A somber old gentleman
Boarded my car
In a very nice suit
With a classic fedora
He sat with a book
With no words on the spine
He bid me good evening
And I answered fine
I have known gypsies
Who weren't worth the knowin'
But he spoke beneath sound
"I am Leonard Cohen"
And I was astounded
Though honest the name
It meant nothing
Then out of thin air
Violins start to play
He says he's the moon
It's the wrong thing to say
I suppose I believed him
I stood up and beat him
He never once shrieked
Just chose to stop breathing
Now I'm on the run
And she's in Quebec
Where a poet hangs kids
From the tits of Claudette
Long lives that moon
But I'll never regret
The death of that ladies man