Pedantic journalists will say, "Oh! Leonard Coen!"
But good people, let me tell you how it came to me.
I was vacationing with the son of Leonard C.
The night before our journey, we began to drink.
We finished off the bottle, our breath stank worse than a greek's.
We stole into his father's den, and reached inside a trunk,
Squaring up some argument 'bout failing the son flunks.
Adam had a sheath of paper, scratched out his father's name.
He handed it to me, said, "This will bring you fame."
He said we must be going, the morning's drawing near.
I put the song inside the bottle and I always keep it near.
This will only darken my many feelings ((failings?)).
Now I'm always talking to the corners of the room.
If I'm ((only that ?)) contact, I might slip right past my door ((doom ?)).
Take careful drinks from this bottle 'cause it will cut for sure.
The social clubs, ((now made ?)) fawn and circle around me.
They laugh at all my jokes as they share with me my drink.
I ride around in limos, my career is going fine.
I drink with the driver. We draw cards on who will drive.
I bought myself a luxury, a painting by Cris Moss,
Needful things, leather-bound books, Tom Petty's old guitar.
I turn over the bottle, put what's inside into my pen.
I send Adam a post card from every place I've been.
The pope he was kind enough to give me audience.
He blessed me as his child and I drank the blood with him.
I take a drink, I rarely eat, I sing my bread and butter.
I spilled ... drink as I raise my bottle for another cheer.
It spilled over my lips and I could taste my sinful tears.
Say my words I rearrange over the same seven chords,
So Adam I return to you, I need my bottle refilled.
When he told me of his journey, in my throat there lodged a pill.
Seems Adam's father heard my song, he said, "That kid's not bad."
But Adam fell upon his knees, confessed all to his dad.
His father hugged his shoulder blade, said "Forgive. Forget."
They watered down the sin I sing by drinking one to it.
Now I'm sucking on a rock just to quench my thirst.
If I threw it at the bottle, I know ... ((then ?)) bottle would not burst.
My hands are womanly and soft, not chafing from this work.
The last time that I broke a sweat was from that song about it.
The papers say I'm washed up and no longer have the touch.
He will not far too much on his sinful crutch.
Now I must find another who will drink with me.
I'm thinking of one christian..
Walk your boots on over, and take a drink with me,
I will get her past the point of her common sense,
I will subtley imply her father's disappointedment.
She'll take my empty bottle, get up and leave the room,
Return with the bottle full, eager to hear me croon.
The critics all will say, "Oh, what a comeback!
I was always on your side. Let's celebrate and toss one back."
My thick uncultured hand has learned my ways are the ways of old men.
My northern blood is turning cold, chilled from drinking my sin.
Underneath the wine-stained page, my own soul won't creep through.
I guess I will find another. What's a man to do?
When they drink with me, I'll suggest revenge.
Maybe there are others who will drink with yours true.
Rufus Wainwright, watch out, boy. I'm coming after you.
Drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink...