William Zantzinger killed poor Hattie Carrol
With a cane that he twirled 'round his diamond-ring finger.
See you in hell.
In the NYTimes
In Mother Jones
I remember hearing the song for the first time -- 1963. What can I say?
Dylan was 22!
And still the same
Third Murderer
I saw Warren Buffet on a truffet.
He kicked my ass.
I showed Donald Trump my Heffalump.
He turned on the gas.
It’s hard out here. You can’t hardly gets your breath.
With all these Third Murderers. Like in Macbeth.
Tom McGrath is dead.
And Adorno is too.
Many more have fled.
This overstocked zoo.
It’s hard out here. You can’t hardly gets your breath.
With all these Third Murderers. Like in Macbeth.
Poetry doesn’t change a thing.
You’re not sure that’s right.
You awake and sing
The World of Lite.
It’s hard out here. You can’t hardly gets your breath.
With all these Third Murderers. Like in Macbeth.
Everything’s ok.
You got your Sunday toot.
All’s a play.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
It’s hard out here. You can’t hardly gets your breath.
With all these Third Murderers. Like in Macbeth.
Angels is coming.
Trumpets are flourishing.
He knows were dumb
And continually perishing.
It’s hard out here.You can hardly gets your breath.
All my pretty ones? All? Just like in Macbeth.