Why is he famous

Bob Dylan’s voice sounds like hail slamming against that long-rusty grate at the boat dock next to my friend Tim’s house in the industrial part of town. His song’s instrumentals sound like campfire riffs on forgotten keyboards tapped out with limited skill and less emotion, until the inevitable dawn breaks and sends the cowering “musicians” back to begging out of hats on chewing-gummed street corners, with frigid gusts punctuating their monotonous existence. But that is irrelevant. It is all irrelevant. His words, his poetry, his tale answers my desperate plea for mutual human experience, I know he has been here.