Once upon a time, you played so fine, made a few dimes in your prime, didn’t you?
Your songs got loud, you did yourself proud, but you hid from the crowd, under a shroud, didn’t you?
But suddenly you’re everywhere, your fans are glad
On PBS, in the bookstore, and in that lingerie ad
Now you’re DJ-ing, on XM
Competing with Stern, that’s Sirius, my friend
But will they pay to subscribe to hear your weekly squeal?
How does it feel?
To have a mic of your own?
To talk to stars on the phone?
To be piped into the home?
Like a strolling drone?
addCredit(“Bob Dylan: Kevork Djansezian/AP”)