Guitar and harmonica at the opening—plain strum, no softener around it.

Now the voice takes the room like a public address: come gather round, wherever you roam.

Waters already grown, and the guitar still refuses hurry.

Start swimmin', or sink like a stone—same steady hand underneath.

First refrain lands on that narrow path: the times they are a-changin'.

Voice steps off and harmonica cuts through—bright, still on the same road.

Writers and critics now, called in over that unchanged stride.

Don't speak too soon—the wheel's still in spin, and the strum keeps circling.

Refrain again, same cadence, resetting without dropping the pressure.

Another harmonica edge between addresses while the guitar just keeps walking.

Senators, congressmen—civic address, still close hand and voice, no crowd noise.

Don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall—obstruction made physical against that forward walk.

Battle outside ragin', and the performance still won't swell to match it.

Refrain returns once more from the same thin melodic road.

Harmonica and guitar hold the gap—no new weight, just the machine turning.

Mothers and fathers now—the same public motion brought indoors.

Sons and daughters beyond your command, and the strum does not darken for it.

Fourth refrain. By now the repeated form is doing as much work as any single line.

Longer stretch of just guitar and harmonica—still that plain machinery, no scatter.

Final verse opens in reversals: line drawn, curse cast, over ground that already feels inevitable.

The order is rapidly fadin'—same narrow path, no sudden drama.

First one now will later be last.

Last refrain from that same cadence, then the ending just withdraws.