Oh, hear this, Robert Zimmerman I wrote a song for you About a strange young man called Dylan With a voice like sand and glue His words of truthful vengeance They could pin us to the floor Brought a few more people on And put the fear in a whole lot more Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again The same old painted lady From the brow of a superbrain She'll scratch this world to pieces As she comes on like a friend But a couple of songs From your old scrapbook Could send her home again You gave your heart to every bedsit room At least a picture on the wall And you sat behind a million pair of eyes And told them how they saw Then we lost your train of thought The paintings are all your own While troubles are rising We'd rather be scared Together than alone Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again The same old painted lady From the brow of a superbrain She'll scratch this world to pieces As she comes on like a friend But a couple of songs From your old scrapbook Could send her home again Now hear this, Robert Zimmerman Though I don't suppose we'll meet Ask your good friend Dylan If he'd gaze a while down the old street Tell him we've lost his poems So we're writing on the walls Give us back our unity Give us back our family You're every nation's refugee Don't leave us with their sanity Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again The same old painted lady From the brow of a superbrain She'll scratch this world to pieces As she comes on like a friend But a couple of songs From your old scrapbook Could send her home again Ah, a couple of songs From your old scrapbook Could send her home again Oh, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes
Written by: David Bowie