The lark of these days....
They sat talking as if I weren't there,
So I looked at myself, as I appeared to be,
And if I weren't there you could've fooled me,
Which maybe was the point I got,
I'm not there, I'm not that hot,
Which if you're a poet can hinge on a lot of things:
Dylan's listening to talk that's cheap, creepers sowing you for a reap.
It's then my old physic comes, pressing my lids with his shaggy thumbs;
From his velvet pouch come joy & sorrow, tinc of lust, of risk
his voice a kiss, a laugh inside the kiss, yet
I can't quite get what I ought to be feeling
As these chatty blind folks piss off my healing
I agree and leave; you don't improve what you can't achieve.