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I SHALL BE FREE NO. 10 Bob Dylan I'm just average, common too I'm just like him, the same as you I'm everybody's brother and son I ain't different from anyone It ain't no use a-talking to me It's just the same as talking to you. I was shadow-boxing earlier in the day I figured I was ready for Cassius Clay I said "Fee, fie, fo, fum, Cassius Clay, here I come 26, 27, 28, 29, I'm gonna make your face look just like mine Five, four, three, two, one, Cassius Clay you'd better run 99, 100, 101, 102, your ma won't even recognize you 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, gonna knock him clean right out of his spleen." Well, I don't know, but I've been told The streets in heaven are lined with gold I ask you how things could get much worse If the Russians happen to get up there first. Wowee' pretty scary! Now, I'm liberal, but to a degree I want ev'rybody to be free But if you think that I'll let Barry Goldwater Move in next door and marry my daughter You must think I'm crazy! I wouldn't let him do it for all the farms in Cuba. Well, I set my monkey on the log And ordered him to do the Dog He wagged his tail and shook his head And he went and did the Cat instead He's a weird monkey, very funky. I sat with my high-heeled sneakers on Waiting to play tennis in the noonday sun I had my white shorts rolled up past my waist And my wig-hat was falling in my face But they wouldn't let me on the tennis court. I gotta woman, she's so mean She sticks my boots in the washing machine Sticks me with buckshot when I'm nude Puts bubblegum in my food She's funny, wants my money, calls me "honey." Now I gotta friend who spends his life Stabbing my picture with a bowie-knife Dreams of strangling me with a scarf When my name comes up he pretends to barf. I've got a million friends! Now they asked me to read a poem At the sorority sister's home I got knocked down and my head was swimmin' I wound up with the Dean of Women Yippee! I'm a poet, and I know it. Hope I don't blow it. I'm gonna grow my hair down to my feet so strange So I look like a walking mountain range And I'm gonna ride into Omaha on a horse Out to the country club and the golf course. Carry the New York Times, shoot a few holes, blow their minds. Now you're probably wondering by now Just what this song is all about What's probably got you baffled more Is what this thing here is for. It's nothing It's something I learned over in England. (Contributed by Andy & Mogg - November 2002)


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