"So long, Marianne,"
Uttered your lips,
Was it a whisper?
Your arms clothing me,
From night's cold air,
And into your warmth,
Four,
Three,
Two,
One,
Then we both let go.

"So long, Marianne,"
She was Cohen's muse,
In a lonely poem,
A melody,
And a lullaby,
Of a love he dreamed,
Cried,
Laughed,
Cried,
Laughed,
About it again.

"So long, Marianne,"
Echoed in the wind,
Through the dawn,
Trees and cars blurring,
As I rode home,
And I closed my eyes,
Sighed,
Smiled,
Sniffed,
Smirked,
At a game well-played.