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