With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row, and your magazine-husband who one day just had to go. And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show - who among them do you think would employ you? Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole, with your holy medallion which your fingertips fold. And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul - oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

Auteur: Bob Dylan