Jul 13, 2026 · 11 min · 6 segments
This is a teaser for Bonus EP#23 - Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie. For full access, plus access to 22 other bonus episodes (at the time of release), early access to all episodes, ad-free listening and…
Daniel CrespinHost
Kerry ShaleHost
When you're lagging behind and losing your pace in the slow-motion crawl of 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's 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 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 a-slipping, and your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are a-dripping.
And your sundeck desert and evergreen valleys turn to broken-down slums and trashcan alleys.
And your sky cries water and your drainpipes are pouring, and the lightnings are flashing and the thunders are crashing, and the windows are rattling and breaking and the rooftops are shaking, and your whole world's a-slamming and banging, and your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm.
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 the dark water with your hands in the air, and the whole world's a-watching with a 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 hand to your feet, and you need it badly but it lays on the street.
And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat, and you think your ears might have been hurt or your eyes have 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 full flush, and all the time you were holding three queens.
And 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 you wanna be saying that somebody someplace ought to 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, and 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 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 frailing, on this mandolin I'm strumming? In the song I'm singing, in the tune I'm humming, in the words I'm writing, in the words that I'm thinking, 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?
When you're lagging behind and losing your pace in the slow-motion crawl of 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's 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 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 a-slipping, and your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are a-dripping.
And your sundeck desert and evergreen valleys turn to broken-down slums and trashcan alleys.
And your sky cries water and your drainpipes are pouring, and the lightnings are flashing and the thunders are crashing, and the windows are rattling and breaking and the rooftops are shaking, and your whole world's a-slamming and banging, and your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm.
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 the dark water with your hands in the air, and the whole world's a-watching with a 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 hand to your feet, and you need it badly but it lays on the street.
And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat, and you think your ears might have been hurt or your eyes have 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 full flush, and all the time you were holding three queens.
And 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 you wanna be saying that somebody someplace ought to 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, and 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 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 frailing, on this mandolin I'm strumming? In the song I'm singing, in the tune I'm humming, in the words I'm writing, in the words that I'm thinking, 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?
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