This Machine Kills Pacifists

If I ever meet Free-wheelin'-
era Bob Dylan,
I'd tell him that we had the same dream.
And he would probably say,
"you mean that one on the train?
You and everybody else, it seems."
And I would probably say,
"Yeah. You're right. Okay.
But why do you think that is?"
And he'd probably reply with,
"friend, I don't know why. It
just seems to be what happens.
That everybody changes into mothball scented clothes,
telling stories that never even happened,
at least not the way their versions go."
Oh yeah?
Well, it's not youthful naivete
or some ungrateful bellyache
or living like I'm trying to forget.
I know there's something commendable
with being responsible and dependable,
I just haven't figured it out for myself yet.
And I know there's something I should say
to make it all okay,
but all I have to show for it,
at the age of twenty-three
is this juvenile philosophy:
"There's more to life than taking people's shit."
Oh yeah? Well how many people start cool and end up cold?
Is that some kind of prerequisite to getting out and getting old?
Oh yeah?
But when the boredom in your life
meets the boredom in your eyes,
justify it all you like,
but some things should never change.
So if I ever have an audience
with nowadays-era Dylan,
I'd just ask him where the hell has he been,
when will he return,
and why is he concerned
with commercials and lawsuits against Hootie and the Blowfish?
And if you ever meet
Husky Tenor-era me,
promise you'll promise me this:
Still my beating heart
if ever I'm a part
of what I nowadays try to resist.
Oh yeah.