My Ma is America. My Pa is a guitar burning
I was burn clutching tightly to the last page turning.
Bad men at the back door. This is what sneakers are for.
Give me all you’ve got, or I’ll take even more.
There’s a question hanging somewhere. I’m to haggard to care.
Trainman is coming my way, and I don’t have the fare.
Beyond guessing and knowing, that’s exactly where I’m going.
Between two shoes and a hat, that’s exactly where I’m at.
I am rapidly uncoiling. Ignoring every warning.
Past the first star on the right and I am strapped in until morning.
My velocity is set. No time for regret.
I am slinking through the dungeons where the demons and I met.
There’s a question hanging somewhere. I’m to haggard to care.
Trainman is coming my way, and I don’t have the fare.
Beyond guessing and knowing, that’s exactly where I’m going.
Between two shoes and a hat, that’s exactly where I’m at.
Bob Dylan is dead. His shirt is soaked in red.
He shares a coffin with Clark Kent. It’s lined with lead.
Ten degrees to the left. It’s a pardon from death.
Leave your shoes at the door, and place your bets.
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