On MacDougal Street

I'm nobody that you'd know - maybe you can call me Joe. Walking down MacDougal Street, I had no one to meet. A New York night without a friend, I dropped into The Bitter End to escape the cold and think, and to have myself a drink. My troubled mind caught G-sharp. A kid there played a fine mouth harp. From an unknown nasal voice, words grabbed me - I had no choice. Poetry poured down in my hole and reached into my soul. How lucky can a poor boy be - Bob Dylan will make history. ~ an anonymous patron of a folk music club in Greenwich Village, 1961