words to live by

[drunken ninja]

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 your laggin' behind an' loosin' your pace
In a slow-motion crawl or life's busy race
No matter what your 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 holdin on
and the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
and your train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
and the wood's easy findin but you're lazy to fetch it
and your sidewalk starts curlin 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 mornin seems so far away
and you feel the reins from your pony are slippin
and your rope is a-slidin' cause your hands are a-drippin
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 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 your whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
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 gettin' chills and your jumping from sweat
and you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
and your knee-deep in dark water with your hands in the air
and the whole world's a-watchin' with a window-peek stare
and your good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
and your heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
and your jackhammer falls from your hands to your feet
and you need it badly but it lays on the street
and your bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
and you think your ears might a been hurt
or your eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
and you figured you failed in yesterday's rush
when you were faked out an' fooled while 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 your mind that you wanna be saying
that somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
but it's trapped in your tongue and sealed in your head
and it bothers you badly when you're layin' in bed
and no matter how you try you just can't say it
and your scared to your soul you just might forget it
and your eyes get swimmy from the tears in your head
and your pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
and the lion's mouth opens and your staring at his teeth
and his jaws start closin' with you underneath
and your flat on your belly with your 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 that 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 your heart pound
but then again you know why they're aruond
just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
'cause sometime you hear 'em when the night time comes creeping
and you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
and you jump from your bed, from your last chapter of dreamin'
and you can't remember for the best of your thinking
if that was you in the dream that was screaming
and you know that it's somethin' 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 your 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 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 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 your 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 your 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 your money
and you think 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 your 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 and 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 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 your 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 your game, it ain't even your race
you can't hear your name, you can't see your face
you gotta look some other place
and where do you look for this hope that your 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

- Bob Dylan