a sort of immortal poet—a howling beatnik, man; that skinny cat of the clouds so swift, man; him the joker or the thief, man—lays across Nobel’s big brass bed of prizes today, floating amongst gasps of literal shock and them musical glories scratched on by his unique scraggly voice... for outside, in the distant Stockholm a wildcat did growl... them academic riders were approaching, like a rolling stone along a slow train coming as the wind began to howl, listen y’all... and listen well: them coolest Swedes gave IT to him, indeed, ‘cause, after all, this village cat is the thin man of the ballad art, gotta say it... “having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.” so, there, don’t you disbelievers see it... the answer, then, was always blowin’ in the wind.
so now don’t say: Dylan, one more pawn in the game all along the watchtower—hey, gotta serve somebody, and he always did walk into all rooms his pencil in his hand. but the Bob, yeah, his jeans are dirty, still, his hair a mess... he been strolling through 75 years of stormy weather, you know... warning us all with his dirt road blues that anytime now, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall and we’ll have to do some hard knockin’ on heaven’s door. so lay lady lay, in his hands that are clean, for you are the best thing he has ever seen... and beyond here lies nothin’. © om ulloa
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