A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes.
People talk of situations, read books, repeat quotations.
It's like going out to the desert and screaming and then having little kids throw their sandbox at you. I'm only 24.
I'm the oldest son of a crazy man, I'm in a cowboy band.
Inside the museum infinity goes up on trial. Voices echo, 'This is what salvation must be like after a while.' But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues; you can tell by the way she smiles.
Beauty walks a razors edge, someday I'll make it mine.
A lot of people don't have much food on their table. But they got a lot of forks 'n knives. And they got to cut somethin'.
When the jelly faced women all sneeze, hear the one with the mustache say I can't find my knees.
God knows there's a heaven.
They're selling postcards of the hanging They're painting the passports brown The beauty parlor is filled with sailors The circus is in town Here comes the blind commissioner They've got him in a trance One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker The other is in his pants And the riot squad they're restless They need somewhere to go As Lady and I look out tonight From Desolation Row.
Seven shots ring out like the ocean's pounding roar, there's seven people dead on a South Dakota farm.
I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul.
I just wanted a song to sing, and there came a point where I couldn't sing anything...nobo dy else was writing what I wanted to sing. I couldn't find it anywhere. If I could I probably would never have started writing.
The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of places you go back to and that don't have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. You can't see it, but you know it's here. Somebody's always sinking.
Cop comes down the street crazy as a loon, he throws us in jail for carrying harpoons.
My songs are personal music, they're not communal. I wouldn't want people singing along with me. It would sound funny. I'm not playing campfire meetings. I don't remember anyone singing along with Elvis, Carl Perkins or Little Richard.
I love Country Music but what happened to it?
There's no liquor in the land that can stop your brain from bleedin
She never stumbles, she's got no place to fall. She's nobody's child, the law can't touch her at all.
I'm sick of giving creeps money off my soul.
Life is more or less a lie, but then again, that's exactly the way we want it to be.
Take me disappearing, through the smoke rings of my mind, down the foggy ruins of time.
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims Into your eyes where the moonlight swims, And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns, Who among them would try to impress you? -Bob Dylan, "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” (1966)
If you're looking to get silly, you better go back to from where you came. because the cops don't need you and man they expect the same.
It's not easy to define poetry.
"America was founded on the backs of slaves."
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