by Bob Dylan



I'm just average, common too

I'm just like him, the same as you

I'm everybody's brother and son

I ain't different from anyone

It ain't no use a-talking to me

It's just the same as talking to you.



I was shadow-boxing earlier in the day

I figured I was ready for Cassius Clay

I said "Fee, fie, fo, fum, Cassius Clay, here I come

26, 27, 28, 29, I'm gonna make your face look just like mine

Five, four, three, two, one, Cassius Clay you'd better run

99, 100, 101, 102, your ma won't even recognize you

14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, gonna knock him clean right out of his spleen."



Well, I don't know, but I've been told

The streets in heaven are lined with gold

I ask you how things could get much worse

If the Russians happen to get up there first.

Wowee' pretty scary!



Now, I'm liberal, but to a degree

I want ev'rybody to be free

But if you think that I'll let Barry Goldwater

Move in next door and marry my daughter

You must think I'm crazy!

I wouldn't let him do it for all the farms in Cuba.



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

He's a weird monkey, very funky.



I sat with my high-heeled sneakers on

Waiting to play tennis in the noonday sun

I had my white shorts rolled up past my waist

And my wig-hat was falling in my face

But they wouldn't let me on the tennis court.



I gotta woman, she's so mean

She sticks my boots in the washing machine

Sticks me with buckshot when I'm nude

Puts bubblegum in my food

She's funny, wants my money, calls me "honey."



Now I gotta friend who spends his life

Stabbing my picture with a bowie-knife

Dreams of strangling me with a scarf

When my name comes up he pretends to barf.

I've got a million friends!



Now they asked me to read a poem

At the sorority sister's home

I got knocked down and my head was swimmin'

I wound up with the Dean of Women

Yippee! I'm a poet, and I know it.

Hope I don't blow it.



I'm gonna grow my hair down to my feet so strange

So I look like a walking mountain range

And I'm gonna ride into Omaha on a horse

Out to the country club and the golf course.

Carry the New York Times, shoot a few holes, blow their minds.



Now you're probably wondering by now

Just what this song is all about

What's probably got you baffled more

Is what this thing here is for.

It's nothing

It's something I learned over in England