Ondine

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Ondine
She's got everything she needs, She's an artist, she don't look back. She's got everything she needs, She's an artist, she don't look back. She can take the dark out of the nighttime And paint the daytime black. --Bob Dylan

2005-09-14 1:39 PM
Dylan and other stuff

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Bob Dylan song for Bush and company:

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

Joe's starting to listen to the words on my Dylan CDs in the car. We are talking about it and he's asking to hear certain songs again and again.

He got through another day of school. Called just once and I told him he could do it and he did. I've raised the bar on what I expect him to handle and he's rising to the challenge. I am very proud of him. He turned 15 yesterday. This time last year was so dark and scary--the beginning of his spiral into the depression. David was weird, I was entombed. A year later, Joe is slowly recovering, I am free. David is still weird. :-)

I have decided to shelve FC and work on Buinne and the short stories. It's a great relief and I don't feel at a loss for Faery's Child. That book taught me the craft fo writing, so it was a success even if it's not publishable. I need to move on though. My heart now is in the next one. Once I decided this, the paralyis over writing lessened and I did some work today.

I got the plane tickets reserved for the Impeach Bush march on the 24th. Virginia and I are meeting Angela in Baltimore and driving down to DC. I've never been on a march there! I am very excited.

Here's another Dylan song.

She Belongs To Me

She's got everything she needs,
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She's got everything she needs,
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She can take the dark out of the nighttime
And paint the daytime black.

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees.

She never stumbles,
She's got no place to fall.
She never stumbles,
She's got no place to fall.
She's nobody's child,
The Law can't touch her at all.

She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She's a hypnotist collector,
You are a walking antique.

Bow down to her on Sunday,
Salute her when her birthday comes.
Bow down to her on Sunday,
Salute her when her birthday comes.
For Halloween give her a trumpet
And for Christmas, buy her a drum.

© Bob Dylan

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