Idiot Wind

Written by Bob Dylan

Somebody's got it in for me, they're planting stories in the press

Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out quick but when they will I can only guess.

They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy,

She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me.

I can't help it if I'm lucky.

People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act

Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts.

Even you, yesterday you had to ask me where it was at,

I couldn't believe after all these years, you did not know me better than that

Sweet lady.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth,

Blowing down the backroads headin' south.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,

You're an idiot, babe.

It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that may strike

I haven't known peace and quiet for so long I just cannot remember what it's like.

There's a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin' out of a boxcar door,

You didn't know it, you didn't think it could be done, in the final end he won the war

After losin' every battle.

I woke up by the roadside, daydreamin' 'bout the way things sometimes are

Visions of your chestnut mare shootin' through my head and are makin' me see stars.

You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies.

One day soon you'll be in the ditch, flies buzzin' around your eyes,

Blood on your saddle.

Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb,

Blowing through the curtains in your room.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,

You're an idiot, babe.

It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind

I don't remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes don't look into mine.

The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone-faced while the building burned.

I waited for you on the running boards, by the cypress trees, while the springtime turned

Slowly into autumn.

Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats,

Blowing through the letters that we wrote.

Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves,

We're idiots, babe.

It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

Published by Ram's Horn Music/Sony/ATV Music Publishing