It's Not A House, It's A Home.

Bob Dylan Was Again An Entirely New Person - This Time Old, Craggy, Cynical, And World-weary, As In "not Dark Yet".

They're Selling Postcards Of The Hanging They're Painting The Passports Brown The Beauty Parlor Is Filled With Sailors The Circus Is In Town Here Comes The Blind Commissioner They've Got Him In A Trance One Hand Is Tied To The Tight-rope Walker The Other Is In His Pants And The Riot Squad They're Restless They Need Somewhere To Go As Lady And I Look Out Tonight From Desolation Row.

There's Not Even Room Enough To Be Anywhere/it's Not Dark Yet, But It's Getting There.../i Was Born Here And I'll Die Here Against My Will/i Know It Looks Like I'm Moving, But I'm Standing Still.

I'm Good With Songs I Haven't Written, If I Like Them. I'm Glad I Didn't Write Any Of Them. I Already Know How They Go, So I Have More Freedom With Them. I Understand These Songs. I've Known Them For 40 Years, 50 Years, Maybe Longer, And They Make A Lot Of Sense. So I'm Not Coming To Them Like A Stranger.

Ain't It Just Like The Night To Play Tricks When You're Tryin' To Be So Quiet?