by Bob Dylan



When your mother sends back all your invitations

And your father to your sister he explains

That you're tired of yourself and all of your creations

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?



Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you

And the smell of their roses does not remain

And all of your children start to resent you

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?



Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned

Have died in battle or in vain

And you're sick of all this repetition

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?



When all of your advisers heave their plastic

At your feet to convince you of your pain

Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?



Now when all the bandits that you turned your other cheek to

All lay down their bandanas and complain

And you want somebody you don't have to speak to

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?