Lord on Peel Street
He has returned from countless wars,
blinded and hopelessly lame,
He endures the morning streetcars
and counts ages in a Peel Street room.
Once for music he tamed a banjo
and softened Bach in a wooden whistle,
but he let the flutes and folksongs go
for the slow march under his window.
He is kept in his room like a court jew,
to consult on plagues or hurricanes,
and he never walks with them on the sea
or joins their lonely sidewalk games.
Writer/s: Leonard Cohen
