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.. At sundown......
