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've never seen before
