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bob dylan - live lyrics

there’s this book coming out
and they asked me to write something about woody
sorta like, “what does woody guthrie mean to you” in 25 words
and, uh, i couldn’t do it
i wrote out 5 pages, and uh, i have it here
it’s, uh, i have it here by accident actually
but i’d like to say this out loud, so if you can sort of
roll along with this thing here:
this is called “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 the slow motion crawl or life’s busy race
no matter what you do if you start giving up
if the wine don’t come to the top of your cup

if the wind gotcha sideways
with one hand holding on
and the other starts slipping on the feeling you’ve got
and the train engine firin’ needs a new spark to catch it
and the wood’s easy findin’ but you’re lazy to fetch it
and your sidewalks starts curlin’ and the street gets too long
you start walking backwards or you know that it’s wrong
and the lonesome comes up as down goes the day
and tomorrow’s morning seems so far away

and you feel the reins from your pony are slipping
and your rope is a’sliding cuz your hands are a’dripping
and your sun-dried desert and evergreen valleys
turn to broken down slums and trash can alleys’
and your sky cries water and your drain pipes’re pourin’
and the lightning’s a’flashing and the thunder’s a’crashing
and the windows are rattling ‘nd breaking
and the rooftops are shaking
and your whole world’s a’slamming and banging

and your minutes of sun turned to hours of storm
‘nd ya tell yrself, 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 you’re jumping from sweat
and you’re lookin’ for somethin’ 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 watchin’ with the window-peek stare
and your good gal leaves and shes long gone a’flyin’,
and your heart feels sick, like fish when they’re fryin’

and your jack-hammer falls from your hands to your feet
but you need it badly and it lays on the street
and your bells banging loudly but you can’t hear its beat
and you think y’ears might’ve been hurt
or your eyes have turned filthy from the slight binding dirt
and you figure you’d failed in yesterday’s rush
and you’re faked out ‘n’ fooled while facing a four flush

and all the time you’re holding three queens;
it’s makin’ ya mad, it’s makin ya mean
like in the middle of life magazine
bouncin’ around a pin-ball machine;

and there’s somethin’ on your mind that you want to be sayin’
that somebody some place ought to be hearin’
but it’s trapped on your tongue, or sealed in your head
and it bothers you badly when you’re laying in bed
no matter how you try you just can’t say it
and you’re scared to your 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 starin’ 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 sp-ce 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 strumming
in this song i’m singing, in the tune i’m humming,
and the words that i’m thinking, in the words i’m writing

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,

cuz sometimes you hear’em when the night time come creepin’
and you fear that they might catch yousleeping
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

you need somethin’ special, you need somethin special alright
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 sp-ce that yer 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 h-ll 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 ain’t in the dime store dummies and bubblegum goons
‘nd ain’t in the marshmallow noises of the chocolatecake voices
that come knockin’ and tappin’ in christmas wrappin’

sayin’ “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 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 mol-sses
that every other day buy a new pair of sungl-sses

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, make all rules so the ones thagot 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 doorkn-bs
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 lyrics

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