BOB DYLAN


Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie Lyrics

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.

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Songwriter(s): Bob Dylan
Copyright: Special Rider Music
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