There's this book coming out and they asked me to write, uh, something about Woody, uh, sort of like, "What does Woody Guthrie mean to you in 25 words?" And, uh, I couldn't do it, I wrote out five pages. And, uh, I have it here–it's, uh–have it here by accident, actually. Ha, but, but, uh, I'd–I'd like to say this out loud, so, uh, if you could sorta roll along with this thing here, this is called "Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie".

Um, 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're doing, if you start giving up,

If the wine don't come to the top of your cup,

If the wind got you sideways with one hand holding 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 finding but you're lazy to fetch it,

And your sidewalk starts curling 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 reins from your pony are slipping,

And your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are 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-pipe's a-pouring,

And the lightning's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashing,

And the windows are rattling and breaking, your¹ rooftops're 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-peek" 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 and it lays on the street,

And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat,

And you think your ears mighta been hurt

Or your eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blinding dirt,

And you figured you failed in yesterday's rush

When you were faked out and fooled while facing a four flush

And all the time you're holding the three queens,

It's making you mad, it's making you mean,

Like in the middle of Life magazine,

Bouncing around a pinball machine,

And there's something on your mind that you wanna be saying,

That somebody someplace oughtta be hearing,

But it's trapped on your tongue and 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 swimmy from the tears in your head,

And your pillows of 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 this 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 flailing,

On this mandolin I'm strumming, in this song I'm singing,

In the tune I'm humming, in the words that I'm thinking,

In the words that 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,

Best never to think these thoughts and never to let them kinda 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 'em when the night times 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–you remember for 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,

You know there's no drug that'll do for the healing,

And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding,

Need something special–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 steam² 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 rolling long after the bubble-gum 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 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 '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 and 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 a real rich kid's road-map,

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 thinks it's funny,

No, you can't find it neither in no night-club, 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, it ain't in the rumors people're telling you,

And ain't in the pimple lotion people are selling you,

It ain't in the 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 hairdo or cotton-candy clothes,

Ain't in the dime-store dummies and bubble-gum goons,

And ain't in the marshmallow noises or the chocolate-cake voices

That come knocking and tapping in 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 has it 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 of papier mâché,

And inside it with 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 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 their sand-box world,

And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools

That run around gallant, make all rules for the ones that got talent,

And ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do

And think they're fooling you,

The ones that 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,

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,

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 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 kinds of doorknobs,

You can either go to the church of your choice,

Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital,

You find God in the church of your choice,

You 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 Grand Canyon, sundown.

¹ Dylan might be saying "the" here.

² Dylan seemingly pronounces this word as "stream".