Thus I Wrote

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Posts Tagged ‘Dylan

My Reflection

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My Reflection

I asked if my Martini
Was shaken or slowly stirred
I tried understanding Pollock
And his views, of the world
In an apartment in Wall street
I waited for her, to allow
I used to worry much more then
I don’t worry, so much now

I held on to her
Like a crucifix of gold
But I held on too tight
Or so a sage, later told
On the stage I was anxious
For my turn, to take a bow
I used to worry much more then
I don’t worry, so much now

And I had this baggage
That I dragged behind
In a battered suitcase
That’s common enough, to find
But the skin, it was too thin
I felt uncomfortable, somehow
I used to worry much more then
I don’t worry, so much now

I was a little man
They said I was distant and mean
I was not honest enough
And my motives, were not clean
These seeds of change they buried
With the tip, of their plough
I used to worry much more then
I don’t worry, so much now

We said many things
That can never be unsaid
And who will forgive us now,
For all the mistakes, we’ve made?
I’ve prayed for some cool hand
To stroke, my fevered brow
I used to worry much more then
I don’t worry, so much now

Written by thus.i.wrote

March 15, 2015 at 6:12 pm

I’m no Dylan

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Bob Dylan 1966

I’m no Dylan
I’m an ordinary man
I’ve worked all my life
I’ve given all I can

I’ve tried to give something
Different and best
I’ve tried to add value
More than the rest

But now I accept
What I’m asked to do
That I’m no Dylan,
That I just muddle through

Written by thus.i.wrote

February 25, 2015 at 2:24 pm

Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door

Mama, take this badge off of me
I can’t use it anymore
It’s gettin’ dark, too dark for me to see
I feel like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door

Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door(4)

Mama, put my guns in the ground
I can’t shoot them anymore
That long black cloud is comin’ down
I feel like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door

Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door(4)

Bob Dylan. Copyright ©1973 by Ram’s Horn Music

Written by thus.i.wrote

November 1, 2012 at 9:02 am

Posted in Music, Poetry

Tagged with , , ,

Love Minus Zero

My love she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence
She doesn’t have to say she’s faithful
Yet she’s true, like ice, like fire
People carry roses
Make promises by the hours
My love she laughs like the flowers
Valentines can’t buy her

In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there’s no success like failure
And that failure’s no success at all

The cloak and dagger dangles
Madams light the candles
In ceremonies of the horsemen
Even the pawn must hold a grudge
Statues made of matchsticks
Crumble into one another
My love winks, she does not bother
She knows too much to argue or to judge

The bridge at midnight trembles
The country doctor rambles
Bankers’ nieces seek perfection
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring
The wind howls like a hammer
The night blows cold and rainy
My love she’s like some raven
At my window with a broken wing

Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music

Written by thus.i.wrote

October 31, 2012 at 3:38 pm

Posted in Music, Poetry

Tagged with , , , ,

She Belongs to me

She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She can take the dark out of nighttime
And paint the daytime black.

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees.

She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She’s nobody’s child
The Law can’t touch her at all.

She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She’s a hypnotist collector
You are a walking antique.

Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
For Halloween buy her a trumpet
And for Christmas, give her a drum.

Bob Dylan

Written by thus.i.wrote

October 31, 2012 at 11:49 am

Posted in Music, Poetry

Tagged with , ,