Oh, hear this Robert Zimmerman
|
I wrote a song for you
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About a strange young man
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called Dylan
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With a voice like sand and glue
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His words of truthful vengeance
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They could pin us to the floor
|
Brought a few more people on
|
And put the fear in a whole lot more
|
|
Ah, Here she comes
|
Here she comes
|
Here she comes again
|
The same old painted lady
|
From the brow of a superbrain
|
She'll scratch this world to pieces
|
As she comes on like a friend
|
But a couple of songs
|
From your old scrapbook
|
Could send her home again
|
|
You gave your heart to every bedsit room
|
At least a picture on my wall
|
And you sat behind a million pair of eyes
|
And told them how they saw
|
Then we lost your train of thought
|
The paintings are all your own
|
While troubles are rising
|
We'd rather be scared
|
Together than alone
|
|
Ah, Here she comes...[etc.]
|
|
Now hear this Robert Zimmerman
|
Though I don't suppose we'll meet
|
Ask your good friend Dylan
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If he'd gaze a while
|
down the old street
|
Tell him we've lost his poems
|
So they're writing on the walls
|
Give us back our unity
|
Give us back our family
|
You're every nation's refugee
|
Don't leave us with their sanity
|
|
Ah, Here she comes....[etc.]
|
|
-----------------
|
Song For Bob Dylan
|
| David Bowie |
