Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie
When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numbWhen you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumbWhen yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer paceIn a slow-motion crawl of life's busy raceNo matter what yer doing if you start givin' upIf the wine don't come to the top of yer cupIf the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' onAnd the other starts slipping and the feeling is goneAnd yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch itAnd the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch itAnd yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too longAnd you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrongAnd lonesome comes up as down goes the dayAnd tomorrow's mornin' seems so far awayAnd you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleysTurn to broken down slums and trash-can alleysAnd yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of stormAnd to yourself you sometimes say"I never knew it was gonna be this wayWhy didn't they tell me the day I was born"And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweatAnd you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yetAnd yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the airAnd the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stareAnd yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flyingAnd yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feetAnd you need it badly but it lays on the streetAnd yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beatAnd you think yer ears might a been hurtOr yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirtAnd you figured you failed in yesterdays rushWhen you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flushAnd all the time you were holdin' three queensAnd it's makin you mad, it's makin' you meanLike in the middle of Life magazineBouncin' around a pinball machineAnd there's something on yer mind you wanna be sayingThat somebody someplace oughta be hearin'But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer headAnd it bothers you badly when your layin' in bedAnd no matter how you try you just can't say itAnd yer scared to yer soul you just might forget itAnd yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer headAnd yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of leadAnd the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teethAnd his jaws start closin with you underneathAnd yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behindAnd you wish you'd never taken that last detour signAnd you say to yourself just what am I doin'On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'On this curve I'm hangingOn this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm takingIn this air I'm inhalingAm I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hardWhy am I walking, where am I runningWhat am I saying, what am I knowingOn this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'In the words that I'm thinkin'In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'Who am I helping, what am I breakingWhat am I giving, what am I takingBut you try with your whole soul bestNever to think these thoughts and never to letThem kind of thoughts gain groundOr make yer heart poundBut then again you know why they're aroundJust waiting for a chance to slip and drop down"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creepingAnd you fear that they might catch you a-sleepingAnd you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'And you can't remember for the best of yer thinkingIf that was you in the dream that was screamingAnd you know that it's something special you're needin'And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleedingAnd you need something specialYeah, you need something special all rightYou need a fast flyin' train on a tornado trackTo shoot you someplace and shoot you backYou need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howlerThat's been banging and booming and blowing foreverThat knows yer troubles a hundred times overYou need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no raceThat won't laugh at yer looksYour voice or your faceAnd by any number of bets in the bookWill be rollin' long after the bubblegum crazeYou need something to open up a new doorTo show you something you seen beforeBut overlooked a hundred times or moreYou need something to open your eyesYou need something to make it knownThat it's you and no one else that ownsThat spot that yer standing, that space that you're sittingThat the world ain't got you beatThat it ain't got you lickedIt can't get you crazy no matter how manyTimes you might get kickedYou need something special all rightYou need something special to give you hopeBut hope's just a wordThat maybe you said or maybe you heardOn some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve
But that's what you need man, and you need it badAnd yer trouble is you know it too good"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills
"Cause you can't find it on a dollar billAnd it ain't on Macy's window sillAnd it ain't on no rich kid's road mapAnd it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity houseAnd it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germAnd it ain't on that dimlit stageWith that half-wit comedian on itRanting and raving and taking yer moneyAnd you thinks it's funnyNo you can't find it in no night club or no yacht clubAnd it ain't in the seats of a supper clubAnd sure as hell you're bound to tellThat no matter how hard you rubYou just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stubNo, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' youAnd it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' youAnd it ain't in no cardboard-box houseOr down any movie star's blouseAnd you can't find it on the golf courseAnd Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa ClausAnd it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothesAnd it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goonsAnd it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voicesThat come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skinLook at my skin shine, look at my skin glowLook at my skin laugh, look at my skin cryWhen you can't even sense if they got any insidesThese people so pretty in their ribbons and bowsNo you'll not now or no other dayFind it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache_And inside it the people made of molassesThat every other day buy a new pair of sunglassesAnd it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phoniesWho'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a pennyWho breathe and burp and bend and crackAnd before you can count from one to tenDo it all over again but this time behind yer backMy friendThe ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirlAnd play games with each other in their sand-box worldAnd you can't find it either in the no-talent foolsThat run around gallantAnd make all rules for the ones that got talentAnd it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they doAnd think they're foolin' youThe ones who jump on the wagonJust for a while 'cause they know it's in styleTo get their kicks, get out of it quickAnd make all kinds of money and chicksAnd you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hatSayin', "Christ do I gotta be like thatAin't there no one here that knows where I'm atAin't there no one here that knows how I feelGood God AlmightyTHAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"
No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer raceYou can't hear yer name, you can't see yer faceYou gotta look some other placeAnd where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'Where do you look for this oil well gushin'Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'Where do you look for this hope that you know is thereAnd out there somewhereAnd your feet can only walk down two kinds of roadsYour eyes can only look through two kinds of windowsYour nose can only smell two kinds of hallwaysYou can touch and twistAnd turn two kinds of doorknobsYou can either go to the church of your choiceOr you can go to Brooklyn State HospitalYou'll find God in the church of your choiceYou'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it's only my opinionI may be right or wrongYou'll find them bothIn the Grand CanyonAt sundown