We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
"Ramona, come closer, Shut softly your watery eyes. The pangs of your sadness Shall pass as your senses will rise. The flowers of the city Though breathlike, get deathlike at times. And there's no use in tryin' T' deal with the dyin', Though I cannot explain that in lines.
Your cracked country lips, I still wish to kiss, As to be under the strength of your skin. Your magnetic movements Still capture the minutes I'm in. But it grieves my heart, love, To see you tryin' to be a part of A world that just don't exist. It's all just a dream, babe, A vacuum, a scheme, babe, That sucks you into feelin' like this.
I can see that your head Has been twisted and fed By worthless foam from the mouth. I can tell you are torn Between stayin' and returnin' On back to the South. You've been fooled into thinking That the finishin' end is at hand. Yet there's no one to beat you, No one t' defeat you, 'Cept the thoughts of yourself feeling bad.
I've heard you say many times That you're better 'n no one And no one is better 'n you. If you really believe that, You know you got Nothing to win and nothing to lose. From fixtures and forces and friends, Your sorrow does stem, That hype you and type you, Making you feel That you must be exactly like them.
I'd forever talk to you, But soon my words, They would turn into a meaningless ring. For deep in my heart I know there is no help I can bring. Everything passes, Everything changes, Just do what you think you should do. And someday maybe, Who knows, baby, I'll come and be cryin' to you."
I am not a troll. Honest, I like this blog and visit daily. One of the many things I like is the reproduction of Dylan's lyrics and the opportunity to savor their clumsy badness. They demonstrate how bad a "poet' he really was. I have no wish to excoriate you, but do wish to persuade you to my view. For a bit of good verse see my comment under the article about teaching Literature at West Point.