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. Some 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. Aoo. 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 they'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. Come on. A couple of songs. From your old scrapbook. Could send her home again. Oh here she comes (oh) here she comes.