När man dränerats på energi efter nattens katastrofval, kan man vända sig till en amerikansk nobelpristagare. Och låta hans texter säga det och plåstra om.
they´re selling postcards of the hanging
they´re painting the passports brown
you don´t need a weatherman
to know which way the wind blows
a hard rain´s a-gonna fall
where the people are many and their hands are all empty
where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
where the executioner´s face is always well hidden
where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
where black is the color, where none is the number
the ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
to Jezebel the nun she violently knits
a bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
at the head of the chamber of commerce
well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
looks up at his hero the commander-in-chief
saying, ”Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
is there a hole for me to get sick in?”
hey Mr Tambourine man, play a song for me
I´m not sleepy and there aint no place I´m going to
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
sometimes I turn, there´s someone there, other times it´s only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand
oh, I awoke in anger
so alone and terrified
I put my fingers against the glass
and bowed my head and cried
it´s not dark yet, but it´s getting there
and the only sound that´s left
after the ambulances go
is Cinderella sweeping up
on Desolation Row ...
they´re selling postcards of the hanging
they´re painting the passports brown
you don´t need a weatherman
to know which way the wind blows
a hard rain´s a-gonna fall
where the people are many and their hands are all empty
where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
where the executioner´s face is always well hidden
where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
where black is the color, where none is the number
the ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
to Jezebel the nun she violently knits
a bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
at the head of the chamber of commerce
well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
looks up at his hero the commander-in-chief
saying, ”Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
is there a hole for me to get sick in?”
hey Mr Tambourine man, play a song for me
I´m not sleepy and there aint no place I´m going to
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
sometimes I turn, there´s someone there, other times it´s only me
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand
oh, I awoke in anger
so alone and terrified
I put my fingers against the glass
and bowed my head and cried
it´s not dark yet, but it´s getting there
and the only sound that´s left
after the ambulances go
is Cinderella sweeping up
on Desolation Row ...
.
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