(Bob Dylan)
Snow was piled up the stairs an onto the street that first
winter when I laid around New York City
It was a different street then-
It was a different village-
Nobody had nothin-
There was nothin t get-
Instead a bein drawn for money you were drawn
for other people-
Everybody used t hang around a heat pipe poundin subterranean
coffee house called the Gaslight-
It was at that time buried beneath the middle a MacDougal Street-
It was a strange place an not out a any schoolbook-
More'n seven nites a week the cops and firemen'd storm down the
steps handin' out summons for trumped up reasons-
More'n five nites a week out a town bullies'd start trouble an
everybody from John the owner t Dave the cook t Rod the cash
register ringer t Adele the waitress t anybody who was on the
stage t just plain friends who were hangin around would have
t come up swingin dishes an handles an brooms an chairs an
sometimes even swords 'at hung on the wall in order t match
the bullies' weight an the bullies was always big bullies-
Everybody that hung out at the Gaslight was close-
Yuh had t be-
In order t keep from going insane and in order t survive-
An it can't be denied-
It was a hangout-
But not like the street corner-
Down there we weren't standin lookin out at the world watchin
girls-and findin out how they walk-
We was lookin at each other ... and findin out about ourselves-
It is 'f these times that I remember most sadly-
For they're gone-
An they'll not never come again-
It is 'f these times I think about now-
I think back t one a them nites when the doors was locked
an maybe thirty or forty people sat as close t the stage |