Queen Jane Approximately Bob Dylan

When your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister he explains
That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations

Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you

Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you’re sick of all this repetition

Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Oh, when all of your advisers heave their plastic
At your feet to convince you of your pain
Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic

Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?