Thursday, December 8, 2016

The Bob Dylan Literary Abstract

The times, they a-change.
It’s going to rain hard - really, really hard.
Something’s going on. Don’t bother to ask Mr. Jones.
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. 
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.
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.
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.
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?
… 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! 
“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.”
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?

“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.”


Local Bargain Jerk said...

You used to dress better and feed the homeless.

People warned you would lose your money, but you thought they were a bunch of jokey dorks. You laughed at them, but that too has ended. Now you're preoccupied with finding food.

So now I ask you? How does it feel to be homeless, ANONYMOUS, and, for some reason, rotating like a pebble?

I think we could talk about good schools, getting juiced, being terribly ill equipped to live on the street, making deals with mysterious homeless people with eyes that would make an Electrolux jealous, buskers, vicarious pleasures, and *good lord* a government official who carries a rescue animal on his shoulder, BUT

it could go on forever, clear back to the time of Napoleon, so I'll just ask you again: How does it feel?

And why are you still rotating like a pebble?

The Sayonara Kid said...

Hey, baby. The jig is up. Why so blue? You knew this day would come again, no? In any event, you better hit the road. No time to pack -- just grab what you need and get gone. Best if you forget the address book, those folks are mostly dead to you now anyway. Ignore the doorbell. Be sure and burn that bridge after you cross it.

Anonymous said...

Ain't it just like the fans to play
Trix when the Yanks'r being so quiet
The team is sitting there stranded, but
The front office is sitting there, denying it
Lights flicker in the opposite loft,
Lonnie & Randy keep mouthin' off,
The country music station plays soft,
but there's nothing - - really, nothing to turn off (in either case)

They'll stone you when you're tryin' to be so good
They'll stone you when you're pitchin' like you should
They'll stone you when you're tryin' to choke yer' babe,
They'll stone ya, cause of how much money you have made
But you would not feel so all alone
If EV'rybody would just get stoned (along with ya) BD/LB

el duque said...

Should do this more often.

Anonymous said...

Im, for it, Duque - - I'll be there (ASSuming the results of my colonoscopy come back positive).

Well, you know something's happening
But you don't know what it is
Do ya', Mr. S??

Blind Robin said...

Get the fuck in here, its a blizzard

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