| I pray for rain because I’m trying
|
| To find god and make him cry,
|
| Because I’m dying in a fire beneath my covers.
|
| And somewhere out across the way,
|
| You ask for salt across a plate,
|
| And you can’t find a word to say
|
| To your own brother.
|
| And you could call me over now,
|
| And we could fix this with our mouths,
|
| But you don’t buy the farm,
|
| If you can’t afford the cow.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment
|
| That you don’t want to share,
|
| And you say you looked back in anger
|
| And it rose to meet your stare,
|
| And you say I am not the one
|
| Who puts the bullet to your gun
|
| And makes it flare.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment to you,
|
| And you don’t want to share.
|
| You say you’re looking for the truth,
|
| Like you got rifles in your books,
|
| But up above your parents’roof
|
| I saw no star tonight,
|
| Only the black from whence you came,
|
| And where they’ll send you back again,
|
| And no blue plaque will keep your name
|
| From falling out of sight.
|
| And you can wage this war of one,
|
| And I am still the only one
|
| Who will remember you when you are gone.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment
|
| That you don’t want to share,
|
| And you say you looked back in anger
|
| And it rose to meet your stare,
|
| And you say I am not the one
|
| Who puts the bullet to your gun
|
| And makes it flare.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment to you,
|
| And you don’t want to share.
|
| Oh and all the things you talk about
|
| But never say to me,
|
| And all the things to talk about
|
| That I could say to you,
|
| Like reading an Italian book
|
| From the 13th century,
|
| Is not that hard to do.
|
| And I am not the kind
|
| Who puts their toe against the line
|
| And makes it tear,
|
| But this could be the thing
|
| That puts the blood into your skin
|
| And keeps it there.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment
|
| That no one else will ever understand.
|
| And you say Dylan is a sentiment to you,
|
| But you are only just a man. |