| Lyrics: | by Bob Dylan
I'm just average, common too
I'm just like him, the same as
you
I'm everybody's brother and son
I ain't different from anyone
It ain't no use
a-talking to me
It's just the same as talking to you.
I was shadow-boxing earlier in
the day
I figured I was ready for Cassius Clay
I said "Fee, fie, fo, fum, Cassius Clay,
here I come
26, 27, 28, 29, I'm gonna make your face look just like mine
Five, four,
three, two, one, Cassius Clay you'd better run
99, 100, 101, 102, your ma won't even recognize
you
14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, gonna knock him clean right out of his spleen."
Well, I
don't know, but I've been told
The streets in heaven are lined with gold
I ask you how
things could get much worse
If the Russians happen to get up there first.
Wowee' pretty
scary!
Now, I'm liberal, but to a degree
I want ev'rybody to be free
But if you
think that I'll let Barry Goldwater
Move in next door and marry my daughter
You must think
I'm crazy!
I wouldn't let him do it for all the farms in Cuba.
Well, I set my monkey
on the log
And ordered him to do the Dog
He wagged his tail and shook his head
And he
went and did the Cat instead
He's a weird monkey, very funky.
I sat with my
high-heeled sneakers on
Waiting to play tennis in the noonday sun
I had my white shorts
rolled up past my waist
And my wig-hat was falling in my face
But they wouldn't let me on
the tennis court.
I gotta woman, she's so mean
She sticks my boots in the washing
machine
Sticks me with buckshot when I'm nude
Puts bubblegum in my food
She's funny,
wants my money, calls me "honey."
Now I gotta friend who spends his life
Stabbing my
picture with a bowie-knife
Dreams of strangling me with a scarf
When my name comes up he
pretends to barf.
I've got a million friends!
Now they asked me to read a
poem
At the sorority sister's home
I got knocked down and my head was swimmin'
I
wound up with the Dean of Women
Yippee! I'm a poet, and I know it.
Hope I don't blow
it.
I'm gonna grow my hair down to my feet so strange
So I look like a walking
mountain range
And I'm gonna ride into Omaha on a horse
Out to the country club and the
golf course.
Carry the New York Times, shoot a few holes, blow their minds.
Now
you're probably wondering by now
Just what this song is all about
What's probably got you
baffled more
Is what this thing here is for.
It's nothing
It's something I learned
over in England |
