(Bob Dylan)

Snow was piled up the stairs an onto the street that first

winter when I laid around New York City

It was a different street then-

It was a different village-

Nobody had nothin-

There was nothin t get-

Instead a bein drawn for money you were drawn

for other people-

Everybody used t hang around a heat pipe poundin subterranean

coffee house called the Gaslight-

It was at that time buried beneath the middle a MacDougal Street-

It was a strange place an not out a any schoolbook-

More'n seven nites a week the cops and firemen'd storm down the

steps handin' out summons for trumped up reasons-

More'n five nites a week out a town bullies'd start trouble an

everybody from John the owner t Dave the cook t Rod the cash

register ringer t Adele the waitress t anybody who was on the

stage t just plain friends who were hangin around would have

t come up swingin dishes an handles an brooms an chairs an

sometimes even swords 'at hung on the wall in order t match

the bullies' weight an the bullies was always big bullies-

Everybody that hung out at the Gaslight was close-

Yuh had t be-

In order t keep from going insane and in order t survive-

An it can't be denied-

It was a hangout-

But not like the street corner-

Down there we weren't standin lookin out at the world watchin

girls-and findin out how they walk-

We was lookin at each other ... and findin out about ourselves-

It is 'f these times that I remember most sadly-

For they're gone-

An they'll not never come again-

It is 'f these times I think about now-

I think back t one a them nites when the doors was locked

an maybe thirty or forty people sat as close t the stage