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(Bob Dylan)

Ride so swift, rain won't lift
Gate won't close, railings froze
Get your mind off wintertime
You aint going nowhere.

Ooh, whee, ride me high
Tomorrow's the day my bride's gonna come
Oh, no, are we gonna fly
Down in my easy chair.

Buy me a flute and a gun that shoots
Tailgates and substitutes
Strap yourself to a tree with roots
You aint going nowhere.

I don't care how many letters they sent
Morning came and morning went
Pack up your money, pick up your tent
You aint going nowhere.

Ghengis Khan, he could not keep
All his kings supplied with sheep
We'll climb that hill no matter how steep
When we get up to it.

Copyright, Bob Dylan
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