Bob Dylan

Reaching for what others have not thought of,
Responding to a call inaudible to other ears,
Always summoned to some new adventure,
The gypsy king wanders with his guitar,
Always on the road, alone in empty hotel rooms,
Looking out on bleak city skylines,
Making sorrow and loneliness sing for their supper.
Skinny and dirty, with the world under his fingernails,
Still wearing the boots he wore a hundred years ago,
In another time and country, under a different guise,
He wanders in on dawn’s whim,
Itinerant mummer of passion plays.
A sudden turning,a fortunate accident,
And the game continues,
Call it freedom or perversity,whatever you will.
It is never the same song twice.
Deal the cards face down,and turn them over.
Only the wise can be so savage.

Trust the music, the wisdom in sounds,
Shaping each moment of the song as it comes,
Jumping from word to word like a squirrel
In the treetops, perfectly at ease, no need to think;
All your life, this is the true religion,
The Guardian Angel guiding you,
Amongst corruption, depravity and sickness.
Beauty will be there at the end,
As it was in the beginning.
Do not be distracted by the crowd.

All his life he reads from the Bible of the land,
The blood-sounds coming through
On weird frequencies, out of the mouths
Of the dead, the dustbowl phantoms.
All men are storytellers, the land demands it,
Crafting what they can to stay the night,
The more fragile, perhaps the more true,
And one can, at least, confide in words
As one so seldom can in people.
Each new disguise is a revelation,-
Clown, devil, child, prophet, magician, fool and hero,
All at once,-the bashful showman
Learning what secrets are
And the zany things they do.
This is America,where death has no credit,
But you can work the land for its mysteries,
If you have a will to learn.
And the songs will always find their way back to you.