It plays in my bedroom on my lonely Dansette
The laments of Dylan of love and regret
Words weaving through dreams my identity shaping
Blowing wide a hole in suburbia gaping.
Suffocation of the Fifties surrendered forever
In homage I commit to this tireless endeavour
To capture in writing HIS every stanza –
This Sunday I declare a Zimmerman bonanza. I
return to the Remington, clattering the keys Recalling the words – or so I believe
Of the original lyrics of ‘Lay Lady Lay’ Catching every nuance, each measured delay.
There were no sleeve notes with the lyrics back then
No Google discography to reveal where and when
A disc was first pressed by which A and R men Or whether the artist preferred Buddha, or Zen.
My appetite insatiable for fresh Dylan titles I steal singles from shops of his latest recitals
To play them ad nauseam – hear every defect
Each scratch a stigmata on my solitary project.
The words they come slowly, the words they come mean
They wink off the foolscap so pristine, so clean
As if He had written them, today, in my room
His musings inspired by the stygian gloom
Of my black painted walls with their Lautrec posters
Overflowing ashtrays and tattered beer coasters
I imagine Him here, admiring my typing
While gently suggesting that I improve the lighting.
I play the track once more just for accuracies sake
To reflect in amazement that it needed only one take
To consign to the blackest of vinyl forever
The works of the master of my emotional weather.
My mother calls from below for some quiet
She tires of my singular musical diet; I reply that the music will terminate soon
But its part of my homework to transpose a tune.
Too late, too late now, the spell has been broken
His words on vellum the remaining token Of my love, my respect and my admiration For the natural born leader of our lost generation.