Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
Bob Dylan

With your mercury mouth
in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke
and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross,
and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them
do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions
which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk,
and your face like glass,
Who among them
do they think could carry you?
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal
and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards
missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes
and your hollow face,
Who among them
can think he could outguess you?
With your sillouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs
and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them
would try to impress you?
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen,
they all did decide
To show you the dead angels
that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you
to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet
and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum
wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband
who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now,
which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them
do you think could destroy you?
Sad eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?