Rambling out of the wild west
|
Leaving the towns I love best
|
Thought I'd seen some ups and down
|
'Till I come into New York town
|
People going down to the ground
|
Building going up to the sky.
|
|
Wintertime in New York town
|
The wind blowing snow around
|
Walk around with nowhere to go
|
Somebody could freeze right to the bone
|
I froze right to the bone
|
New York Times said it was the coldest winter in seventeen years
|
I didn't feel so cold then.
|
|
I swung on to my old guitar
|
Grabbed hold of a subway car
|
And after a rocking, reeling, rolling ride
|
I landed up on the downtown side:
|
Greenwich Village.
|
|
I walked down there and ended up
|
In one of them coffee-houses on the block
|
Got on the stage to sing and play
|
Man there said, Come back some other day
|
You sound like a hillbilly
|
We want folksingers here.
|
|
Well, I got a harmonica job begun to play
|
Blowing my lungs out for a dollar a day
|
I blowed inside out and upside down
|
The man there said he loved my sound
|
He was raving about he loved my sound
|
Dollar a day's worth.
|
|
After weeks and weeks of hanging around
|
I finally got a job in New York town
|
In a bigger place, bigger money too
|
Even joined the Union and paid my dues.
|
|
Now, a very great man once said
|
That some people rob you with a fountain pen
|
It don't take too long to find out
|
Just what he was talking about
|
A lot of people don't have much food on their table
|
But they got a lot of forks and knives
|
And they gotta cut something.
|
|
So one morning when the sun was warm
|
I rambled out of New York town
|
Pulled my cap down over my eyes
|
And heated out for the western skies
|
So long New York
|
Howdy, East Orange.
|
|
-----------------
|
Talking New York
|
Bob Dylan |