by Bob Dylan



Santa-Fe,

Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe,

My woman needs it ev'ryday,

She promised this a-lad she'd stay,

She's rollin' up a lotta bread

To toss away.

She's in Santa-Fe,

Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe

Now she's opened up an old maid's home,

She's proud, but she needs to roam,

She's gonna write herself a roadside poem,

About Santa-Fe.



Santa-Fe,

Dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe.

Since I'm never gonna cease to roam,

I'm never, ever far from home,

But I'll build a geodesic dome

And sail away.

Don't feel bad.

No, no, no, no, don't feel bad

It's the best food I've ever had.

Makes me feel so glad

That she's cooking in a home-made pad

She never caught a cold so bad

When I'm away.



Santa-Fe,

Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe.

My shrimp boat's in the bay

I won't have my nature this way,

And I'm leanin' on the wheel each day

To drift away

From Santa-Fe,

Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe.

My sister looks good at home,

She's lickin' on an ice cream cone,

She's packin' her big white comb,

What does it weigh?