OK, this will be my first try at a ‘cross-post’. Yes, it’ll take me ten(10) minutes to perfect on Xanga, and then, if the creeks don’t rise and the poppies bloom, 19 hours on ‘Sword-press-ure’, or whatever they call that demon-site.
Basically, Mr Dylan seems to have had a less than perfect time on a trip South of the Border in the mid-sixties. I figure it’s never too late to revise the lyrics a bit.
For anyone too young to know the original words like the back of his/her hand, I’ll include his pessimistic version verse-by-verse.
Next Challenge, probably after I’m safe in a rest home, is to record my own version and upload it. I’ve sung my words and they work just fine, for meter, rhyme, and rhythm. Something to look forward to, huh?
JS/Lost in tel Aviv
‘Just Like Tom Thumb Blues’
When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez And it’s Easter time too
And your gravity fails And negativity don’t pull you through
Don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there And they really make a mess outta you/
GPS on the train to Jaurez, and still on Eastern time too…
Four bars on the lap-top. Positivity, through and through
I’ll be putting on airs by tonight, down on Rue Morgue Avenue…
They got some Hungarian women, who say they’ll ‘Really make a man outa you..’
Now if you see Saint Annie Please tell her thanks a lot
I cannot move My fingers are all in a knot
I don’t have the strength To get up and take another shot
And my best friend, my doctor Won’t even say what it is I’ve got
If you see Saint Annie, please tell her ‘Thanks a lot!’
We both felt the Earth move; I’m thinking maybe tying the knot
Yeah I may have the strength, might even give it another shot.
And as Best man, my Doctor; he’ll surely tell me what a whiz I got
Sweet Melinda The peasants call her the Goddess of gloom
She speaks good English And she invites you up into her room
And you’re so kind And careful not to go to her too soon
And she takes your voice And leaves you howling at the moon
Sweet Melinda, the Pheasants call her the ‘Goddess of Plume’
She speaks good Pidgin, and invites ’em up into her room
And the hens are so kind, and careful not to lay their eggs too soon
just this one stupid rooster, who insists on crowing at the Moon
Up on housing project hill It’s either fortune or fame
You must pick up one or the other Though neither of them are to be what they claim
If you’re lookin’ to get silly You better go back to from where you came
Because the cops don’t need you And man they expect the same
Look up ‘Housing Project Hill dot com…. check out ‘Fortune’ or ‘Fame’
You can choose one or the other, or click-on both; yeah they’re everything they claim
Get as silly as you want to, you can always click ‘Back’ to from where you came
Just say ‘Adios’ to the nice policemen, (they probably already said the same.
Now all the authorities They just stand around and boast
How they blackmailed the sergeant-at-arms Into leaving his post
And picking up angel who Just arrived here from the coast
Who looked so fine at first But left looking just like a ghost
Now all of the authorities, they just stand around and boast
How you can e-mail the Sargent of Arms, a perfect man for the post
He’s the Gaurdian Angel of every newbie coming in from the coast
Who arrive looking so scared, and leave gushing ‘Man Ur da most!’
I started out on Burgundy But soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they’d stand behind me When the game got rough
But the joke was on me There was nobody even there to bluff
I’m going back to New York City I do believe I’ve had enough
Well we started out at Burger-King, soon got their ‘harder stuff’
My friends said they’d watch me try to chew a meal that tough.
But the joke was on them; the Salad Bar was nothing more than fluff.
Still, why go back to new York City, when Mexico is …quite enough?