When I dream sometimes it seems so real, and then there's this

I just had this dream where I was a young man and a folk singer
And it was night and I was walking down the back roads of this sleepy southern town called Fenton Louisiana.

Now as far as I know there is no Fenton Louisiana, but it has a nice ring to it, don't you think.

Like I said, I was walking down the back roads, and I was writing a song in my head, and bemoaning the fact that I didn't have pencil or paper handy to write it down properly.

Oh, the white folk hate the black folk
But the black folk just don't care
Cause there's violence, and poverty, and injustice everywhere

You see, I was a young man, and a folk singer, and that's the kind of songs we wrote back then.

Anyways, while I'm writing this tune in my head I get a message from a mutual friend who says that Bob Dylan is depressed and he could use my help.
And I said ...

Bob Dylan, what would I know that could possibly help him?
Besides, I don't even think that he knows who I am.

But I was assured that Dylan had asked for me, and my help would be greatly appreciated because, and as we all know, Dylan was a beacon for our generation and his light must never be dulled.

So I commenced to walking
Commenced to walking, that's a phrase you often hear folk singers use, it just means that they've started their quest.

So I commenced to walking down these dark lonely back roads not rightly knowing where I was going until I saw a light off in the distance.

When I reached the light, there was man all alone sitting in a toll booth, and when he looked up I asked him kind of sheepishly if he knew where I could find Bob Dylan.

He just grinned and pointed down the road to another light off in the distance and said that Dylan was drinkin' down at Ramblin' Jack Elliot's house.

So I walked on down the road, not rightly knowing what was the road and what wasn't, until I came to the house with a light in the window.

I knocked, and then I walked in, cause that just seemed like the thing to do,
And when I got inside there was Bob Dylan and Ramblin' Jack Elliot sitting at the bar, drinking beer and chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

I stopped for a second and then I said ...

Hey Bob, hey Jack, what's going on?

And Bob turned to me and through a shroud of smoke said ...

Nothing much, can I getcha a beer?

And I replied ...

Aw heck, I don't drink, and maybe that's why my songs always suck, but I would like a diet coke, if it's all the same to you.

Then I looked at Bob, and I looked at Jack, and I started to say something ...

[[[POOF]]]

And then I woke up.