Dylan

round about the time i was 17

i was kickin up a racket down in new orleans

harp around my neck and strings gripped tight

i was slappin out them riffs for seven days and nights

and them folks out there were some howlin fools

as i sat up on stage just screaming them blues

then she walked through the door

turned every head in the room

glass of whiskey flowin hair

her beauty sure did stir up the room

every gambler closed his eyes

and every glass clinkin stopped dead

she looked to me

she said boy i want to take you to bed

she said come with me i'll take you to my land

we can bathe in the fields of gold

then come inside the night is getting cold 

i can make you a cup of love

then that morning come

had to pack up my harp hit the streets of slum

didnt want to leave her side

but i had that gig on the upper east side

months went by

i had a hot step poppin in my weak old stride

there was no food

 no food for the soul of curing them blues

until an old man come my way

he was a drawing on a harp 

and blowing all day

he had a story to be told

like a saga from the south his words unfold

no negros got a place behind a fork

and no white mans got the right to own

you gotta follow your chains and what you own

now take your strings and get on home

you gotta play to live

if you dont take the stage youll die

you gotta play to live

if you dont take the stage youll die