The Bob Dylan Literary Abstract

The times, they a-change.

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It’s going to rain hard - really, really hard.

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Something’s going on. Don’t bother to ask Mr. Jones.

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I can’t make it to this year’s North Country Fair. It’s very windy up there. If you go, check out my ex. Her hair is long. I hope she has a warm coat. 

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I’ll get in trouble for this, but whenever she takes stuff, she’s a typical woman. Likewise, in the sack, she’s a woman. When she aches, same deal: Textbook definition of an adult female. But if anything goes wrong - woah - suddenly, she’s a little girl. That’s right. Total whack job.

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They don’t care who you are. They’ll stone you. Why? Because they said they would. When you’re going home, they’ll stone you again. You can be on the road, minding your own business - they will stone you! Don’t take it personally. They are bastards.

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To whom it may concern: I am hereby tendering my resignation from the staff of Maggie’s Farm. Though grateful for the opportunity to work with Team Maggie, I’ve grown tired of Maggie’s Pa putting out his lit cigars on my face. Also, I would suggest that Human Resources check Maggie’s actual age. She is 68, not 54, as commonly claimed.

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Hey, you, with the tambourine! Play something. I don’t care. I’m wide awake, it’s a jingle-jangle morning, and my boot heels - aw, screw this - YOU GOT ANY DRUGS?

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… So the thief says, “No reason to get excited.” Yeah, right. I mean, we’re only stuck out here, it’s late, it’s cold, the wind’s howling, they drank all my liquor, and half these guys think life’s a frickin' joke. I’m thinking, there must be some way to get the hell out of this song. There’s too much confusion. Then two guys ride up. I'm in luck. One is Jimi Hendrix! 

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“Ma,” I say, “I really hate to ask this, what with your bad hip and all, but could you go out back, dig a hole in the ground and bury my firearms? Yeah, the AK-47s, the Glocks, the whole stockpile. If anybody asks, say I got tired of shooting them. You don’t need to dig too deep. This is for a movie soundtrack.”

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Alright, lady, have it your way. Go ahead and lay. Yeah, you heard right. Lay. Just lay, lay, lay - right across this big brass bed. Lay all night. I don't care. Have your cake and eat it too. You know what she says? She says, “You mean lie on the bed, right? Way to go with the grammar, ‘Mr. Voice of the New Generation.’” *

Get away from my window! What are you doing there? You stalking me? I’m not the one you want, babe. You want some big lug, who’ll protect you. I weigh 130, including guitar. I’ll get the crap beaten out of me. How about if we try Johnny Cash on this?

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“Wait, I got it!” I say. “How many seas must a white dove sail before she finds a beach, you know, like, to sleep on?” The room goes quiet. “Well,” Seeger grumbles, "it aint gonna win no Nobel Prize for Literature, but let’s give it a whirl.”