Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands Joan Baez
This is the Joan Baez version of the Bob Dylan song expertly done by my dear friend
Hutagalung. If you wanted an accurate version of this song; this is it!
[B]With you[D#m]r mercury mouth in the [E]missionary [F#]times,
And your [B]eyes like [D#m]smoke and your pray[E]ers like rhy[F#]mes,
And your [E]silver c[D#m]ross, and your voi[E]ce like ch[B]imes,
Oh, who[D#m] among them do they th[E]ink could bu[F#]ry you?
Wi[B]th your po[D#m]ckets well pro[E]tected at l[F#]ast,
An[B]d your str[D#m]eetcar visions which you [E]place on th[F#]e grass,
And your fle[E]sh like s[D#m]ilk, and your fa[E]ce like g[F#]lass,
Who a[D#m]mong them do they thin[E]k could car[F#]ry you?
[C#m]Sad eyed la[E]dy of the lo[B]wland[F#]s,
[C#m]Where the sad eyed [E]prophet says that n[B]o man com[F#]es,
My [B]ware[D#m]house e[E]yes, my[B] Arab[E]ian dr[F#]ums,
Shou[G#M]ld I leave them by your[C#m] gate,
E B (Transition to next verse) D#m, G#M, F#
Or sad eyed lady, should I wait?
[----]With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
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?
(B D#m G#M F#...repeat until fade)