Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
#BobDylan Lyrics

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
With your quick, silver-tongued speech in the past when it was used for converting people to religion.

And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
Your eyes that are hazy like smoke and your prayers that are rhythmic like poetry.

And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
With your symbol of faith made of silver and your voice that sounds like sweet music.

Oh, do they think could bury you?
Do they think they can silence or hide you away?

With your pockets well protected at last,
With your financial security and resources secured.

And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
Your dreams and aspirations that you envision as real, but that you place on the uncertain ground.

And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Your smooth skin and delicate features, making you vulnerable and fragile.

Who could they get to carry you?
Who could they find to bear the weight of your being?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
You are a woman who looks sad, in the depths of the valley.

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
The one who foretells the future sees that no man can come to you.

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
My eyes full of memories, and my drums that evoke the Middle East.

Should I put them by your gate,
Should I offer them to you, waiting outside your door?

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Or should I simply wait for you?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
Your bedclothes that are cool and hard like metal, and your belt that is elegant like lace.

And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
Your playing cards that are incomplete, missing the most valuable cards.

And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Your worn clothes and your face that is empty, lacking something.

Who among them can think he could outguess you?
Who could feel confident that they can predict or outsmart you?

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Your shadow that falls as the light fades.

Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
To the depths of your eyes where the moonlight seems to move and dance.

And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Your songs that are small and cheap, and your hymns that are free-spirited and nomadic.

Who among them would try to impress you?
Who among them would try to catch your attention or make you feel important?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Those who are powerful and wealthy with a history of wrongdoing.

Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
Are lining up to have a fleeting moment with you.

And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
And it comes as a surprise to you that they want to be near you like this.

But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
Who among them truly cares about you, rather than just wanting to use or possess you?

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
The memories of your past that still burn within you, on your carpet that is dark like night.

And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
Your polite behavior mixed with the influence of your mother's addiction.

And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Your rough language and your efforts to limit your freedom by obeying rules.

Who among them do you think could resist you?
Who could resist your unique blend of qualities and experiences?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
Even those who work the land and those who run companies have made up their minds.

To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
To reveal the dark secrets they once kept hidden from you.

But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
But why did they choose you to be the one to understand or align with them?

Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
How could they misunderstand or underestimate you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
They hoped you would be the one to take responsibility for their failures.

But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
But with the vast, endless ocean by your side and the fraudulent scare to worry about.

And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
And holding onto the child of a criminal, who is now in your care.

How could they ever, ever persuade you?
How could they convince or influence you to take the blame?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
With your sharp, hard memory of a place with harsh realities.

And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your husband, who was more of a fantasy from a magazine than a real person, who left one day.

And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
And your kindness that is now so natural for you, you can't help but demonstrate it.

Who among them do you think would employ you?
Who among them would be willing to hire or associate with someone like you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
Now you are standing alongside your criminal partner, bound by his probationary requirements.

With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
With your sacred pendant that you unconsciously play with between your fingers.

And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
And your face that looks angelic and your soul that seems to be elusive or otherworldly.

Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?
Oh, who could be capable of harming or ruining you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
You are a woman who looks sad, in the depths of the valley.

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
The one who foretells the future sees that no man can come to you.

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
My eyes full of memories, and my drums that evoke the Middle East.

Should I leave them by your gate,
Should I offer them to you, waiting outside your door?

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Or should I simply wait for you?