Words and music by Dylan.

I’m feeling:
Buddha says it’s fantasy,
but it sure seems real to me
when it’s snowing like this.
I’m working
to critique and supervise,
to refine and optimize
my easygoingness.

I’m walking:
that’s what my senses tell me.
I’m walking:
my soul’s intentions compel these
legs to do their thing.
I’m walking
in one certain direction;
I’m walking,
but my mind’s prone to distraction and
misses everything.

I’m speaking
with wisdom and grace
about our time and place
advice you should take to heart.
I’m hearing
above the news and the noise
the sound of my own voice
and thinking, “I’m pretty smart!”

I’m walking:
that’s what my senses tell me.
I’m walking:
my soul’s intentions compel these
legs to do their thing.
I’m walking
in one certain direction;
I’m walking,
but my mind’s prone to distraction and
misses everything.

The light on my skin
is already eight-minutes old:
if the sun exploded I wouldn’t know;
for a while, it’d still shine.
What intolerable tragedies
like flat tires or missing car keys
are not yet known to me
cuz the news takes its time.

I’m seeing
the earth and the stars.
I'm leaving all my worldly desires,
all my habits of attachment.
I’m thinking,
“All these fools around
have never met anything as profound as me
in my enlightenment.”

I’m walking:
that’s what my senses tell me.
I’m walking:
my soul’s intentions compel these
legs to do their thing.
I’m walking
in one certain direction;
I’m walking,
but my mind’s prone to distraction and
misses everything.

Words and music by Dylan.

Come to the bird park with me!
I’ll show you something you’ve never seen.
I’m four-years old, and my boots are dry,
and my stick is a bird-detector.

Look at dad’s fresh coffee grounds!
There are bugs! There are bugs! Small and brown!
I’d better pour it all around!
I’d better hold it upside down!

I’m four-years old, and I’m starting to wonder
why the sky is made of clouds and thunder;
if electricity in the ceiling fan
is the same as the sunlight on my hand.

A funnel cloud on a sick-colored morning.
The radio announced a tomato warning!
A sky that warmed us yesterday
now gives us cause to run away.

Icy streets in the lifeless cold.
“Mom, who puts cables on telephone poles?”
Popsicles at the grocery store.
“Dad, why do people fight in wars?”

I’m four-years old, and I don’t know
why some things die while other things grow.
Sometimes there’s peace, sometimes aggression.
Mom says, “Sometimes answers are less important than questions.”

Dad says culture and civilization
spring like Adam from my imagination.
But unlike the Creator in those olden days,
I won’t blame my creatures for my mistakes.

Mom hopes I’ll live meaningfully
with Man’s discoveries passed down to me.
For now I’ll think and I’ll labor
to turn some Legos into an elevator.

I’m four-years old and I can see
that every day has a mystery.
Though evil exists, it’s nothing to me.
I don’t take such nonsense seriously.

I’m four-years old, and there’s no way
that I can live one more day
without knowing everything
about this silly world we all got stuck in.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my cares, return;

And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur’d youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night’s untruth.

Cease dreams, th’ imagery of our day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my cares, return;

Enlightened lines of a medieval cathedral:
a fitting home for a remarkable people.
Fertile lands and naval stations:
a great inheritance for a stumbling nation.

Dread the fruits of American folly.
Dread the fruits of American folly.
Drab crunches filled with stubborn melancholy.
Dread the fruits of American folly.

Multi-polar risky business.
Missile exchange, but they’re not our missiles.
How many times should we take this gamble?
How many ends can history handle?

Dread the fruits of American folly.
Dread the fruits of American folly.
Drab crunches filled with stubborn melancholy.
Dread the fruits of American folly.

There’s no one to tell you how to be a man.
No Guadalcanal, not even Vietnam.
No praise for good works you’ve only thought about.
Sometimes “freedom” is just bravely muddling along.

Dread the fruits of American folly.
Dread the fruits of American folly.
Seoul and Tokyo will be okay (probably).
Dread the fruits of American folly.

Words and music by Dylan.

“Another roof, another proof!”

At lectures, you’d slouch with your eyes closed.
You’d say, “I think only God knows
if truths I find in the evening
disappear while I’m sleeping.”

Oh, Erdős!
I hope you got your wish.

The primes like highway markers placed by a drunkard.
Poor Hardy had some, then old at 45.
Yours, like God’s, were boundless,
stopping only when your body died.

Friend’s house, unplanned visit.
You scattered Cheerios in the kitchen,
and said, “The dog’s hungry; these points I feed him,
while I teach him Ramsey’s theorem.”

Oh, Erdős!
I hope you got your wish.

Integrals and intuition.
Which axioms are just superstition?
Formal proofs and common sense.
Can one find God with paper and pen?

No synagogue, no Hebrew school,
and yet a tribal god for holy fools.
No secrets; I’m free to peek!
The only gatekeeper: my capacity.

Benzedrine, amphetamine.
What dosage for me to see?

Benzedrine, amphetamine.
What dosage for a commoner like me?

Oh, Erdős!
I hope you got your wish.

Words and music by Dylan, although the melody is traditional.

Wake up, wake up, darling Corey!
What makes you sleep so long?
Our dear home is slowly burning.
Our leaders have all proved wrong.

The first time I saw darling Corey,
she was thinking of the secrets of life.
Had a plan to tame Man and the Devil
and a temper to cut God down to size.

Dig a hole, dig a hole in the meadow,
dig a hole in the cold, cold ground.
Dig a hole, dig a hole in the meadow.
She’ll lay each one of us down.

Think hard, think hard, darling Corey!
Think hard before you fight.
Old Noah has gone to his drinking,
and your country has gone to spite.

Wake up, wake up, darling Corey,
and go get me my gun.
I ain't no man for trouble,
but I'll die before I run.

Words and music by Dylan.

Farm equipment,
freshwater breeze,
retired lakeboat,
we stand in the lee.

Children gathering,
flaggers on the road.
It’s a lovely morning:
that’s what I’m told.

There's no doubt about it:
this winter is warm.
I like when you miss me.
I like when when I’m gone

Loss on a neighborhood street.
Life is a tremendous thing.

Beautiful weather.
Let’s keep it together.