Working on Maggie’s Farm

I’ve always worked on Maggie’s farm. I’ve always hoped and dreamed there was a way out but Maggie’s farm has grown from one end of the universe to the other . Maggie’s farm has flattened the earth. You can’t walk out of it. There is no edge or beyond.

“I try so hard to be just the way I am
But everybody want’s you to be just like them
They say ‘Sing while you slave,’ but I just get bored
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more”

I always hear the line as ‘sing while you SING’ not ‘sing while you SLAVE’. I defer to the people who write these things down; my hearing’s not so good and I always hear what I want to hear anyway. Singing and Slaving might go hand in hand, but they aren’t the same thing, despite what many say. The whole point of art is to create something essential and individual. All art requires rule, but the first calling of an artist is to create his or her own rules and defy convention. I am not saying convention plays no part in the game, but its part is subordinate. Convention says Dylan has a bad voice. Dylan has a great voice.

When he wrote this song he was saying a lot of things, as he always does. Mostly he was saying he would write and sing songs he wanted to write and sing. He didn’t write to please any particular crowd or to fulfill others’ expectations. Dylan writes and sings because he feels compelled to and besides, he can’t do anything else. In the Scorsese documentary he is quoted as saying that he got quite lucky. They opened the door a crack and let him in and once he was there they couldn’t get rid of him. They being the ‘individuals’ of the record industry. All but one of whom said he couldn’t sing. John  Hammond’s folly.

Maggie’s Farm

I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.
Well, I wake in the morning,
Fold my hands and pray for rain.
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin’ me insane.
It’s a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor.
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.

I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more.
Well, he hands you a nickel,
He hands you a dime,
He asks you with a grin
If you’re havin’ a good time,
Then he fines you every time you slam the door.
I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more.

I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more.
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks.
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks.
The National Guard stands around his door.
Ah, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more.

I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more.
Well, she talks to all the servants
About man and God and law.
Everybody says
She’s the brains behind pa.
She’s sixty-eight, but she says she’s fifty-four.
I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more.

I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.
Well, I try my best
To be just like I am,
But everybody wants you
To be just like them.
They say sing while you slave and I just get bored.
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.