Listening to Bob Dylan 2005 by Linda Pastan Lyrics

Little Bobby Zimmerman,
did he have a mother?
Iconoclast to icon,
was the wind his brother?

Did he steal or borrow
Woody's voice, pure gravel?
Women gave their bodies.
Kerouac gave travel.

Some would call him genius
or curly headed sphinx,
riding music out of sight
and noisy as a lynx.

Here we go again,
counting up our dead:
syncopated bullets,
hard rain on our heads,

foxes in the hen house,
freedom on the rack.
Somebody sing something!
The times are a-changing back.