Lyric | Bob Dylan/Dylan Thomas |
Laughing when he shook his paper/Hunchbacked in mockery | |
Peck, sprint, dance on fountains and duck time/Before I rush in a crouch the ghost with a hammer, air, | |
Well, I rush into your hallway/Lean against your velvet door/I watch upon your scorpion/Who crawls across your circus floor | |
The photograph is married to the eye/Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; | |
The cloak and dagger dangles/Madams light the candles/In ceremonies of the horsemen | |
Well, I set my monkey on the log/And ordered him to do the Dog/He wagged his tail and shook his head/And he went and did the Cat instead | |
Your pearly eyes, so fast and slashing/And your flashing diamond teeth | |
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits/At the head of the chamber of commerce. | |
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month | |
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list/Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss | |
The darted hail, the childish snow/And the wind was my sister suitor; | |
Well, I set my monkey on the log/And ordered him to do the Dog/He wagged his tail and shook his head/And he went and did the Cat instead | |
The cloak and dagger dangles/Madams light the candles/In ceremonies of the horsemen | |
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound/Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage. | |
Well, I rush into your hallway/Lean against your velvet door/I watch upon your scorpion/Who crawls across your circus floor | |
The drunken politician leaps/Upon the street where mothers weep/And the saviors who are fast asleep/They wait for you | |
The lips of time leech to the fountain head/Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood/Shall calm her sores. | |
And from her lips the faded pigments fall/The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast. | |
So sing your praise of progress and of the Doom Machine/The naked truth is still taboo whenever it can be seen | |
Your pearly eyes, so fast and slashing/And your flashing diamond teeth | |
Over the choir minute I hear the hour chant/Time's coral saint and the salt grief drown a foul sepulchre | |
And you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears/Take the rag away from your face | |
Peck, sprint, dance on fountains and duck time/Before I rush in a crouch the ghost with a hammer, air, | |
The photograph is married to the eye/Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; | |
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list/Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss | |
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month | |
Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs/Nor hammer back a season in the figs, | |
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits/At the head of the chamber of commerce. | |
The grievers grieve among the street burned to tireless death | |
Laughing when he shook his paper/Hunchbacked in mockery | |
Comments