Wrinkled women and wrinkled wrockers.

I get all the ladies after five PM
They wanna hear some Bob, and be nineteen again
I get a lotta tail when the hands go half past six
They hum to Harvest Moon, and fall for all Neil’s tricks
But at seven fifty-five, I see tumble weeds a-blowin’
So I lock and key my door, to be alone with Leonard Cohen.