She takes your voice and leaves you howling at the moon.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship.

Nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street.

She knows there's no success like failure, and that failure's no success at all.

Ironically, this was Bob Dylan's period [1967-74] of greatest fame.

They can't hurt me. Sure, they can crush you and kill you. They can lay you out on 42nd and Broadway and put hoses on you and flush you in the sewers and put you on the subway and carry you out to Coney island and bury you on the Ferris wheel. But I refuse to sit here and worry about dying.

Good and bad, I define these terms, quite clear, no doubt, somehow.