DYLAN AT THE BEAT MUSEUM

DYLAN AT THE BEAT MUSEUM

I went to the beat museum

but they wanted eight dollars.

Eight dollars of my hard earned money.

Eight dollars of my cracking eggs for the people on the sidewalk.

Eight dollars of slicing peppers and peeling onions in a kitchen

inside a truck.

Eight dollars of my eyes weeping as I slice.

Eight dollars, man.

For eight dollars I could buy a roll of paper

or a typewriter ribbon

to unroll my blood, sweat, and tears

down Woody Guthrie’s ribbon of highway

in this, MY land

of Earth, Wind, and Fire

all the way home.

I stand with my hand out

on the sidewalk.

Not asking for eggs, or egg money or pin money or pin numbers

Not asking for a lower tax rate or higher fences

or to sanctify gay marriage or to marry a sanctimonious bastard.

Just asking

for eight dollars.

Just asking

to see some Beats.

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for the Beat Museum today.

Can I borrow eight dollars, man?