You drive your car in, pull it up on the rack
You promise me faithlessly that you'll be back
I wait in the pit, it's the fate I have earned
For believing some day you'll return
To the streets of New York from my tower of song
I come down to work where the common folk throng
In my famous blue shirt with its patch that says Len
Then I go back to write songs again
Leonard Cohen is working a day job they say
For bizarre inspiration and hourly pay
And I swear by the grease in the crease of my hand
If you need speedy lubin', I'll prove
I'm your man
I'll beg if I must, 'cause I'm aching to hear
Your story, as I check your brakes front and rear
Can you play a sad waltz on your cheap violin
Did you have a good time in Berlin
If Saint Joan should pull in, in her Charger of white
And ask if it all could be finished tonight
I'd say, "Let me take a look under your hood
All that smoke doesn't look very good"
I'm on fire
Leonard Cohen is working a day job they say
It's part of the price every artist must pay
And I swear by the crud and the blood on my hands
If you need a tune this afternoon
I'm your man
And I swear by the monkey wrench clenched in my hand
If you lack something basic in black
I'm your man
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