| Lyrics: | by Bob Dylan
Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe,
My woman needs it
ev'ryday,
She promised this a-lad she'd stay,
She's rollin' up a lotta bread
To toss
away.
She's in Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe
Now she's opened up an
old maid's home,
She's proud, but she needs to roam,
She's gonna write herself a roadside
poem,
About Santa-Fe.
Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe.
Since I'm
never gonna cease to roam,
I'm never, ever far from home,
But I'll build a geodesic
dome
And sail away.
Don't feel bad.
No, no, no, no, don't feel bad
It's the best
food I've ever had.
Makes me feel so glad
That she's cooking in a home-made pad
She
never caught a cold so bad
When I'm away.
Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear,
dear, dear Santa-Fe.
My shrimp boat's in the bay
I won't have my nature this way,
And
I'm leanin' on the wheel each day
To drift away
From Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear,
dear, dear Santa-Fe.
My sister looks good at home,
She's lickin' on an ice cream
cone,
She's packin' her big white comb,
What does it weigh |
