In museums, the Infinite is judged
Echoes of voices saying this must somehow be salvation
But the Mona Lisa must have the "highway blues" (2)
you can tell by the way she smiles
I watch the primitive violaceous freeze
as gelatin-faced women sneeze
The one with the mustache says, "My God, I can't find my knees"
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the mule's head
But these visions of Johanna make it all so cruel
Now the street vendor speaks to the countess who pretends to listen
He says, "Name me someone who isn't a parasite and I'll say a prayer for him"
But as Louise always says, "You're not a good observer, are you, boy?"
And she, the very one, prepares for him
And Madonna is still not in sight
We look at this empty cage that is now corroding
Where her stage coat once flowed
The violinist now heads toward the street
And writes on the back of the fish truck that is loading
that everyone has been granted what they deserved
While my consciousness explodes
The harmonicas play skeletal (3) tones and rain
And these visions of Johanna are all that remains
a part of the most beautiful song by Bob Dylan. a hell of a singer.
