Lyrics: Bob Dylan. I Shall Be Free--No. 10.

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 than anyone

It ain't no use to talk 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
5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 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 everybody to be free
But if you think 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 fallin' 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