Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

Album: The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3 (Rare & Unreleased) 1961-1991 (1963)
Play Video
  • When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
    When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
    When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
    In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
    No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
    If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
    If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
    And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
    And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
    And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
    And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
    And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
    And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
    And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
    And 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 valleys
    Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
    And 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 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 gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
    And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
    And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
    And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
    And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
    And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
    And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
    And you need it badly but it lays on the street
    And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
    And you think yer ears might a been hurt
    Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
    And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
    When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
    And all the time you were holdin' three queens
    And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
    Like in the middle of Life magazine
    Bouncin' around a pinball machine
    And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
    That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
    But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
    And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
    And no matter how you try you just can't say it
    And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
    And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
    And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
    And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
    And his jaws start closin with you underneath
    And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
    And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
    And 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 hanging
    On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
    In this 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 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 breaking
    What am I giving, what am I taking
    But you try with your whole soul best
    Never to think these thoughts and never to let
    Them kind of thoughts gain ground
    Or make yer heart pound
    But then again you know why they're around
    Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
    "Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
    And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
    And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
    And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
    If that was you in the dream that was screaming
    And 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 bleeding
    And you need something special
    Yeah, you need something special all right
    You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
    To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
    You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
    That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
    That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
    You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
    That won't laugh at yer looks
    Your voice or your face
    And by any number of bets in the book
    Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
    You need something to open up a new door
    To show you something you 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 yer standing, that space that you're sitting
    That the world ain't got you beat
    That 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 all right
    You need something special to give you hope
    But hope's just a word
    That maybe you said or maybe you heard
    On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

    But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
    And 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 bill
    And it ain't on Macy's window sill
    And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
    And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
    And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
    And it ain't on that dimlit stage
    With that half-wit comedian on it
    Ranting and raving and taking yer money
    And you thinks it's funny
    No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
    And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
    And sure as hell you're bound to tell
    That no matter how hard you rub
    You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
    No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
    And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
    And it ain't in no 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 cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
    And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
    And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
    That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
    Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and 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 got any insides
    These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
    No you'll not now or no other day
    Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache
    And inside it the people made of molasses
    That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
    And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
    Who'd turn yuh 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 yer back
    My friend
    The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
    And play games with each other in their sand-box world
    And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
    That run around gallant
    And make all 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 foolin' you
    The ones who jump on the wagon
    Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
    To get their kicks, get out of it quick
    And make all kinds of money and chicks
    And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
    Sayin', "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 yer game, it ain't even yer race
    You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
    You gotta look some other place
    And 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 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 kinds of doorknobs
    You can either go to the church of your choice
    Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
    You'll find God in the church of your choice
    You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

    And though it's only my opinion
    I may be right or wrong
    You'll find them both
    In the Grand Canyon
    At sundown
    Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind

Comments: 1

  • Jeff from Lacey, WashingtonAnytime I get the existential doldrums and I start to feel like there's nothing good left, I listed to this poem. It's one of the finest things Dylan ever created.
see more comments

Editor's Picks

Taylor Dayne

Taylor DayneSongwriter Interviews

Taylor talks about "The Machine" - the hits, the videos and Clive Davis.

Gary Numan

Gary NumanSongwriter Interviews

An Electronic music pioneer with Asperger's Syndrome. This could be interesting.

Donnie Iris (Ah! Leah!, The Rapper)

Donnie Iris (Ah! Leah!, The Rapper)Songwriter Interviews

Before "Rap" was a form of music, it was something guys did to pick up girls in nightclubs. Donnie talks about "The Rapper" and reveals the identity of Leah.

John Doe of X

John Doe of XSongwriter Interviews

With his X-wife Exene, John fronts the band X and writes their songs.

Chris Tomlin

Chris TomlinSongwriter Interviews

The king of Christian worship music explains talks about writing songs for troubled times.

David Bowie Lyrics Quiz

David Bowie Lyrics QuizMusic Quiz

How well do you know your David Bowie lyrics? Take this quiz to find out.