Leonard Cohen

The stories of the street are mine
The spanish voices laugh
The cadillacs go creeping down
Through the night and the poison gas
I lean from mu window sill
In this old hotel I chose.
Yes, one hand on my suicide
And one hand on the rose.
I know youve heard its over now
And war must surely come,
The cities they are broke in half
And the middle men are gone.
But let me ask you one more time
O children of the dust,
These hunters who are shrieking now
Do they speak for us?
And where do all these highways go
Now that we are free?
Why are the armies marching still
That were coming home to me?
O lady with your legs so fine
O stranger at your wheel
You are locked into your suffering
And your pleasures are the seal.