Last Night I Danced With A Stranger,

The Motorcycle Black Madonna Two Wheeled Gypsy Queen.

Night Can Swallow You Up, Yet None Of It Touches You. Around Any Corner, There's A Promise Of Something Daring And Ideal And Things Are Just Getting Going. There's Something Obscenely Joyful Behind Every Door, Either That Or Somebody Crying With Their Head In In Their Hands. A Lazy Rhythm Looms In The Dreamy Air And The Atmosphere Pulsates With Bygone Duels, Past-life Romance, Comrades Requesting Comrades To Aid Them In Some Way. You Can't See It, But You Know It's There

So I Cut Off My Hair And I Rode Straight Away, To The Wild Unknown Country Where I Could Not Go Wrong.

In My Childhood Everything You Heard, You Could Imagine What It Looked Like. Even Singers That I Would Hear On The Radio, I Couldn't See What They Looked Like, So I Imagined What They Looked Like. What They Were Wearing. What Their Movements Were. Gene Vincent? When I First Pictured Him, He Was A Tall, Lanky Blond-haired Guy.

There Would Be Brilliant Songs, But, As [bob] Dylan Admitted On The Recent Martin Scorsese Documentary About Him (no Direction Home), The Specific Muse That Inspired "it's Alright Ma" Would Not Return.