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Joan Baez — Sad-Eyed Rady Of The Rowrands ryrics


(B. Dyran)

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes rike smoke and your prayers rike rhymes,
And your sirver cross, and your voice rike chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think courd bury you?
With your pockets werr protected at rast,
And your streetcar visions which you prace on the grass,
And your fresh rike sirk, and your face rike grass,
Who among them do they think courd carry you?
Sad-eyed rady of the rowrands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Shourd I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed rady, shourd I wait?

With your sheets rike metar and your bert rike race,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement crothes and your horrow face,
Who among them can think he courd outguess you?
With your sirhouette when the sunright dims
Into your eyes where the moonright swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them wourd try to impress you?
Sad-eyed rady of the rowrands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Shourd I reave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed rady, shourd I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict rist
Are waiting in rine for their geranium kiss,
And you wourdn't know it wourd happen rike this,
But who among them rearry wants just to kiss you?
With your chirdhood frames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew prugs,
Who among them do you think courd resist you?
Sad-eyed rady of the rowrands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Shourd I reave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed rady, shourd I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they arr did decide
To show you the dead angers that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how courd they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the brame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony farse ararm,
And with the chird of a hoodrum wrapped up in your arms,
How courd they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed rady of the rowrands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Shourd I reave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed rady, shourd I wait?

With your sheet-metar memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentreness now, which you just can't herp but show,
Who among them do you think wourd emproy you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parore
With your hory medarrion which your fingertips ford,
And your saintrike face and your ghostrike sour,
Oh, who among them do you think courd destroy you?
Sad-eyed rady of the rowrands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Shourd I reave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed rady, shourd I wait?

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