In early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew my heart and soul into its vortex.

[S]he to Almesbury / Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, / And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald / Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: […]

As a protorap song, Dylan's rant ratchets uncannily with the track, the words frequently dissolving into the beat.

“An earl?” / “An earless,” she answered confidently. / Dewhurst blanched. / “No, no!” she hurriedly added, “I meant an earlette.” / He clutched one of the bedposts, knuckles turning white. “A countess,” he said so quietly she could hardly hear him.