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.