From: Jeff Battema (jbattema@iec.com) Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb, When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb, When you're lagging behind and losing your pace In a slow-motion crawl or life's busy race, No matter what you're doing if you start giving up, If the wine don't come to the top of your cup, If the wind's got you sideways with one hand holding on And the other starts slipping, all the feeling is gone; And a train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it And the wood's easy finding but you're too lazy to fetch it And your sidewalk starts crawling and the street gets too long And you start walking backwards though you know that it's wrong, And lonesome comes up as down goes the day And tomorrow's morning seems so far away And you feel the reigns from your pony are slipping And your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are a-dripping And your sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys Turn to broken-down slums and trash can alleys. And your sky cries water and your drain pipes are pouring And the lightning's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashing And the windows are rattling and breaking and the rooftop's a-shaking And your whole world's a-slamming and banging And your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm And to yourself you sometimes say, "I never knew it was gonna be this way. Why didn't they tell me the day I was born?" And you start getting chills and you're jumping from sweat And you're looking for something you ain't quite found yet And you're knee deep in dark water with your hands in the air And the whole world's watching with the window-peak stare And your good gal leaves, and she's long gone a-flying And your heart feels sick like fish when they're frying And your jackhammer falls from your hands to your feet But you need it badly but it lays on the street And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat And you think your ears might've been hurt Or your eyes have turned filthy from the slight binding dirt And you figured you failed in yesterday's rush And you were faked out and fooled while facing a four-flush And all the time you were holding three queens. It's making you mad, it's making you mean Like in the middle of Life magazine Bouncing around in a pinball machine. And there's something on your mind that you want to be saying That somebody someplace oughtta be hearing But it's trapped on your tongue, sealed in your head And it bothers you badly when you're laying in bed And no matter how you try you just can't say it And you're scared to your soul you just might forget it And your eyes get salty from the tears in your head And your pillows and feathers turn to blankets of lead, And the lion's mouth opens and you're staring at his teeth And his jaws start closing with you underneath And you're flat on your belly with your hands tied behind And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign. You say to yourself, "Just what am I doing? On this road I'm walking, on this trail I'm turning, On this curve I'm hanging, on this pathway I'm strolling, In the space I'm taking, in the air I'm inhaling.... Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard? Why am I walking? Where am I running? What am I saying? What am I knowing on this guitar I'm playing? On this banjo I'm freeling, on this mandolin I'm strumming, In the song I'm singing, in the tune I'm humming, In the words that I'm thinking, in the words I'm writing, In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinking? Who am I helping? What am I breaking? What am I giving? What am I taking?" But you try with your whole soul never to think these thoughts And never to let them kind of thoughts gain ground Or make your heart pound But then again, you know when they're around Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down, 'Cause sometimes you hear them when the nighttime come creeping And you fear they might catch you sleeping. And you jump from your bed from the last chapter of dreaming And you can't remember from the best of your thinking If that was you in the dream that was screaming, And you know that it's something special you're needing And you know there's no drug that'll do for the healing And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding. You need something special, you need something special, alright You need a fast-flying train on a tornado track To shoot you someplace and shoot you back, You need a cyclone wind on a steam-engine howler That's been banging and booming and blowing forever That knows your troubles a hundred times over, You need a greyhound bus that don't bar no race That won't laugh at your looks, your voice or your face And buying a number of bets in a book Will be rolling long after the bubble-gum craze, You need something to open up a new door To show you something you've seen before But overlooked a hundred times or more, You need something to open your eyes, You need something to make it known That it's you and no one else that owns That spot that you're standing, That space that you're sitting, That the world ain't got you beat. It ain't got you licked, it can't get you crazy No matter how many times you might get kicked. You need something special alright, You need something special to give you Hope-- But Hope's just a word that maybe you said and maybe you heard On some windy corner around a wide-angle curve But that's what you need, man, and you need it bad And your trouble is you know it too good 'Cause you look and you start getting the chills 'Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill And it ain't on a Macy's windowsill And it ain't on a real rich kid's roadmap And it ain't made in no fat kid's fraternity house And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ And it ain't on that dim-lit stage with that half-wit comedian on it Ranting and raving and taking your money And you think it's funny And you can't find it neither in no night club, no yacht club, And it ain't in the seats of the supper club And sure as hell, you're bound to tell No matter how hard you rub, you just ain't gonna find it on your ticket stub. No it ain't in the rumors people are tellin' ya And it ain't in the pimple lotion people are sellin' ya It ain't in a cardboard-box house or down any movie star's blouse And you can't find it on the golf course And Uncle Remus can't tell you, and neither can Santa Claus And it ain't in the creampuff hairdo or cotton-candy clothes It ain't in the dimestore dummies and bubble gum goons And ain't in the marshmallow noises or the chocolate cake voices That come knocking and tapping and Christmas wrapping Saying "ain't I pretty?" and "ain't I cute? Look at my skin, look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry" When you can't even sense if they've got any insides These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows. No, you'll not now and no other day Find it on doorsteps made of paper-miache And inside with the people made of molasses That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses And even the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies Who'd turn you in for a tenth of a penny Who breathe and burp and bend and crack And before you can count from one to ten, do it all over again But this time behind your back, my friend. The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl And play games with each other in this sandbox world And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools Who run around gallant and make all the rules For the ones that got talent. And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent But think they do and think they're fooling you Or the ones that jump on the wagon, just for a while 'Cause they know it's in style To get their kicks and get out of it quick And make all kinds of money and chicks. And you yell to yourself and you throw down your hat, saying "Christ, do I gotta be like that? Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at? Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel? Good God Almighty, that stuff ain't real." No, but that ain't your game, it ain't your race You can't hear your name, you can't see your face. And where do you look for this Hope that you're seeking? Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burning? Where do you look for this oil well gushing? Where do you look for this candle that's glowing? Where do you look for this Hope that you know is there and out there somewhere? And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways You can touch and twist and turn two types of doorknobs You can either go to the church of your choice or you go to Brooklyn State Hospital-- You find God in the church of your choice, You find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital. Y'know it's only my opinion, I may be right or wrong You'll find 'em both in the Grand Canyon, sundown.