An Ode to Bob Dylan
This is the song of Bob Dylan,
smoking a cig, leanin’ back and chillin’,
a troubadour that knows what’s for,
with songs that linger outside your door.
A friend of Woody Guthrie he,
speaks of life down by the sea,
with words that drop you to your knee,
loose your tongue and set you free.
He grew up in the Midwest when,
your soul also lived there then,
and like a farmer, could spin a yarn,
about a coy girl in the neighbor’s barn.
He spoke of justice and held disdain,
for politicians and posers and all who feign.
He fought for peace ‘cuz he knew the wink,
that sent young men to death in half a blink.
And he is haggard now, I think,
but into the soil he will never sink,
for he is filled with life and love,
and love of life from far above.
His voice whispers through the wheat,
on a foggy day by a lonely street,
in a Midwest town where a boy was born,
to mend the heart of a nation torn.