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作词 : Bob Dylan |
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作曲 : Bob Dylan |
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With your mercury mouth in the missionary times |
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And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes |
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And your silver cross and your voice like chimes |
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Oh, who do they think could bury you? |
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With your pockets well-protected at last |
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And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass |
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And your flesh like silk and your face like glass |
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Who could they get to carry you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums |
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Should I put them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace |
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And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace |
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And your basement clothes and your hollow face |
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Who among them did think he could outguess you? |
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With your silhouette when the sunlight dims |
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Into your eyes where the moonlight swims |
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And your matchbook songs and your gypsy hymns |
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Who among them would try to impress you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums |
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Should I put them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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The kings of Tyrus, with their convict list |
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Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss |
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And you wouldn't know it would have happened like this |
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But who among them really wants just to kiss you? |
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With your childhood flames on your midnight rug |
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And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs |
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And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs |
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Who among them do you think could resist you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums |
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Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide |
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To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide |
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But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side? |
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How could they ever mistake you? |
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They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm |
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But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm |
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And with the child of the hoodlum wrapped up in your arms |
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How could they ever have persuaded you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man's come |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums |
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Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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With your sheet metal memory of Cannery Row |
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And your magazine husband who one day just had to go |
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And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show |
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Who among them do you think would employ you? |
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Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole |
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With your holy medallion in your fingertips now enfold |
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And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul |
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Who among them could ever think he could destroy you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums |
| [10:31.484] |
Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
