Come and find it as the roll on. Papers cut. Placed out as here, here, here. Held well with winking eye. Roll on, roll on. As finding highway, as streetcar, as tenement building. Rolled as steam upon the drying throat. Bark once and find cathedral spruiking. Pontificating via sliding metronome, almanac hand, encyclopedia broth, phone book deliverance. It’s just and said said said. Quotation on the wing. Sold papers, worthless in this miserable city. In any case, one more down the track. Envious in Spanish acquiescence. Lost as the one two three kid donning this new celestial cup of coffee. Oh to look out the window, see what’s making smoke tonight.

Author: Bob Dylan
Title: Tarantula
Publisher: Harper Perennial