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krm Jul 2017
The times they-are a-changin;
you ain't going nowhere.

Not dark yet,
rainy day women

subterranean homesick blues,
if not for you --
when the deal goes down,
lay, lady, lay.

I shall be released;
blowin' in the wind,
like a rolling stone

Down the highway.

Girl from the north county;
mr tambourine man,
jokerman,
ring them bells.

With god on our side,
to Ramona—
it takes a lot to laugh,
it takes a train to cry
brandon nagley Apr 2017
You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked and you say, "Who is that man?"
You try so hard but you don't understand
Just what you will say when you get home
Because something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
But something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
And you say, "Impossible!" as he hands you a bone
And something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You have many contacts among the lumberjacks
To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect, anyway they already expect you to all give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
Ah, you've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks
You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books
You're very well-read, it's well-known
But something is happening here and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels
He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice, he asks you how it feels
And he says, "Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan"
And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Now, you see this one-eyed ****** shouting the word "Now"
And you say, "For what reason?" and he says, "How"
And you say, "What does this mean?" and he screams back, "You're a cow!
Give me some milk or else go home"
And you know something's happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law against you comin' around
You should be made to wear earphones
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Ballad of a Thin Man" is a dirge song written and recorded by Bob Dylan, and released as the final track on Side One of his sixth album, Highway 61 Revisited, in 1965.
Dylan's song revolves around the mishaps of a Mr. Jones, who keeps blundering into strange situations, and the more questions he asks, the less the world makes sense to him. Critic Andy Gill called the song "one of Dylan's most unrelenting inquisitions, a furious, sneering, dressing-down of a hapless bourgeois intruder into the hipster world of freaks and weirdoes which Dylan now inhabited."[6]

In August 1965, soon after recording the song, when questioned by Nora Ephron and Susan Edmiston about the identity of Mr. Jones, Dylan was deadpan: "He's a real person. You know him, but not by that name... I saw him come into the room one night and he looked like a camel. He proceeded to put his eyes in his pocket. I asked this guy who he was and he said, 'That's Mr. Jones.' Then I asked this cat, 'Doesn't he do anything but put his eyes in his pocket?' And he told me, 'He puts his nose on the ground.' It's all there, it's a true story."[7] At a press conference in San Francisco in December 1965, Dylan supplied more information about Mr. Jones: "He's a pinboy. He also wears suspenders."[8]

In March 1986, Dylan told his audience in Japan: "This is a song I wrote a while back in response to people who ask me questions all the time. You just get tired of that every once in a while. You just don't want to answer no more questions. I figure a person’s life speaks for itself, right? So, every once in a while you got to do this kind of thing, you got to put somebody in their place... So this is my response to something that happened over in England. I think it was about '63, '64. [sic] Anyway the song still holds up. Seems to be people around still like that. So I still sing it. It's called 'Ballad Of A Thin Man'."[9]

There has been speculation whether Mr. Jones was based on a specific journalist.[6] In 1975, reporter Jeffrey Jones "outed" himself in a Rolling Stone article, describing how he had attempted to interview Dylan at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. When Dylan and his entourage later chanced on the hapless reporter in the hotel dining room, Dylan shouted mockingly, "Mr. Jones! Gettin' it all down, Mr. Jones?"[10] When Bill Flanagan asked Dylan, in 1990, whether one reporter could claim all the credit for Mr. Jones, Dylan replied: "There were a lot of Mister Joneses at that time. Obviously there must have been a tremendous amount of them for me to write that particular song. It was like, 'Oh man, here's the thousandth Mister Jones'."[11]

In the John Lennon-penned Beatles song "Yer Blues", Lennon describes the character as "suicidal", and that he feels "just like Dylan's Mr. Jones".
Ju Clear Oct 2016
Bob and Lou
You are my lyrical gods
Raised on hippy ness
Your tunes were intertwined
Bob you got a top prize
About time too with all that's blown in the wind
And Lou with your flowers every hour you have made many a day perfect
Bob you wandered a bit but we forgive
Glad am I of finding you both
Welcome a world of  Wilde sides and tambourine men .
Wrote off the top of my head when bob got his prize
I went gentle into that good night;
A decision with which I am rather pleased,
For what would it profit me to rage?

When the absolute of the darkness slides in,
And grants me these last few moments
I see no incentive for them to waste.

Dissatisfied men may cry out in indignance,
And let anger and rebellion consume their last breaths,
And frivolously spend their last minutes in livid disdain.

Wild men who chase and pursue the stars in flight
Feel their chests swell with the hatred of submission,
But I? I know that the setting of the sun does not oppress.

Disappointing men reserve all defiance when it is most required;
When others’ blood pours freely and tears spill liberally
They will shackle all insurrection to themselves.

That is, until they are faced with this finality, this ultimatum
That they cannot change, no matter how they rage. Not I. I was content.
And with the last gifts,
I went gentle into that good night.
A reflection of Dylan Thomas' famed poem, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night."
Aeerdna Apr 2016
when i hear your voice
i feel like smoking a million cigarettes
and drink tens of bottles of wine
i see pictures of your smile
i hear you protesting in wise words
and saying all the things
about people who are not heard

the way your harmonica sounds
and your guitar strings
they lift me to heaven
and bring me back to earth
a vision of love and hate
your voice
something so strong,
my ordinary ears cannot understand sometimes
your words

some say you don't have the voice
but the way i hear it
i can't compare it to anything
not to angels
nor to demons
you have the right kind of soul
the kind they will never get to know

i wish you'd never disappear
never go
i know
a stupid illusion
but in my heart you are the one
making my rainy days bright
your songs they make me smile
every time i hear them in my room.

i had a dream
you were sitting next to me
typing some words
and as much as I deny it
i know
it was the most wonderful image
i'll ever get to see.

playing with words is your best game
a mystery
a lost soul
a rough voice
and gentle touch of strings
a mad voice in a world
with nothing to believe in
to you
i'll drink a glass
and in my heart
your music will be
the only thing that will ever last.
She
She can take the dark out of the night-time and paint the daytime black
Nigel Finn Dec 2015
Some people write, but rarely read,
That seems to me most strange indeed,
They've read less than a hundred books,
Yet think they imitate the looks,
Of Sassoon, Cummings, Keats and Pound,
Or think they imitate the sound,
Of Lennon, Dylan, or Shakur,
And sometimes think they've offered more,
Than Chaucer, Wilde or Shakespeare could,
And claim they're more misunderstood,
Than even Salman Rushdie was,
Which really ticks me off because,
After having read such wondrous works,
A sense of failure always lurks,
Inside me whenever I write,
Yet they think they've done well tonight!
I hate them all! That's it - I've said it!
But they won't know until they've read it,
Which is quite doubtful, I'd attest,
Who'd read my work and skip the best?
We're all guilty of thinking a little bit to highly of ourselves sometimes, especially when we've recieved a bit of praise for what we've done, and I'm certainly no exception. It feels good, and there's usually no harm whatsoever in it. It's nice to feel that way sometimes. Some people, however, take the biscuit.

Yes, Kanye West and Katie Price - I'm talking about you, among others.
Got Guanxi Oct 2015
Hindsight blues,
I'm tangled up in you but you can't see through the overgrowth -
Thick bristles and whistle blowers,
Tell me your perception of me.

Let's laugh together at the discrepancies,
Don't expect more from me,
You know me better than that,
aristocratic nature, I hate where you come from,
That comfortable turf.

I can't be myself in your world,

Solipsism - listen we can only shine on reflection vision and that takes more than you or I alone.

Still tripping,

Tangled up in you.
So I went to see Bob Dylan the other night at the Royal Albert Hall...
Steve Raishbrook Oct 2015
As time passes on, I hear many songs
Songs of old, songs of new
Mornings haze, dusks stillness
Lonely nights, city living
County air, summers medows
Winters lonely streets
Death of the old, birth of the young

A guitar, a band, a note, a strum
Busking, travelling, clocks a tickin
Waters flowin, trains a rollin, end of the line
Dreaming, fighting, crying, dying

Oh father of night
Oh father of day
Oh father to you I pray
You require no faith
You are past, present, future
Forever with us

In our cars
In our rooms
In the darkness
Share the joy
Your words
Your chords
Your voice  
Guding unyielding to the truth

What's right
What's wrong
What are minds are thinking
What our hearts are feeling

I drift, I flow
Years go bye
You remain
A ship that can't be sunk
A dream that can't be thwarted
Wherever my restless heart wonders
You will be found
Robert Zimmerman we are forever yours

The  disillusioned
The faithless
The loveless
The lost
The wiry
Now and forever
Till the day we pass
You're the father
You're the light in the dark
You will never die
Your star burns brightest
In this life or the next
God willing
We'll meet again
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