Magic Swirling Ship

Adair, freshly arrived from Nebraska, gets off the bus at Grand Central Station:

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wandering
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it

She does feel gently tousled, and Adair, hair gently tousled, fresh peach and corn fed face, is illuminati aggravating attractive.

What is this temple, Grand Central Station? Who are these pilgrims, these wanderers? What is their devotion? Is it to corn? There are corn products all over the place, Grand Central Station, as Adair assesses and approves, lovingly.

“So this is where the pedal meets the metal,” is a thought formed in Adair’s mind. “This is where the petal meets the medal”, echoes…

Adair knew of Bob Dylan. She heard his songs on AM Nebraska radio. She knew of The Byrds. Was it Bob’s or the Byrd’s version of Tambourine Man infiltrated her hear, mind, soul, spirit, blood, sweat, tears, tampon? The Byrd’s version was melodic, and — anodyne. Not scratchy or stinky as was Bob’s, given his version’s saturation in bodily fluids, externalized. You never smelled anything as stinky as rancid blood. (As Victor would remind her, through telepathy, back when pop music was King/Queen/Prince (not Prince Andrew, though he was alive then)/Princess we didn’t have no “Ver 1.0, Ver 2.0, Ver 1.2” — We had to make do, most of the time, with a First Edition!