central's never busy always on the line we may hear from heaven almost any time
kids are royal service free for one and all when you get in trouble give this royal line a call
little jack horton again telephone the glory oh man right out of a hoover camp
right out of a steinbeck novel like grapes of wrath okie's bringing music to california
they come out of the dust bowl and speaking of okies how about woodrow wilson guthrie of
okiema oklahoma he was out in the west coast in the 1950s in malibu and topanga canyon
hanging out with will gear and rambling jack elliott singing oklahoma hill okie swing man
me
while bob wills was rocking the santa monica pier every weekend but woodrow wilson guthrie
was there man with the okies and peach pickers orange pickers grape pickers he wrote stuff like
the crops are all in and the peaches are rotting the oranges are piled and creosote dumps and we're
flying back to the mexican border man that song plain record los gatos pure california literature
all part of the scene hail woodrow wilson guthrie here's rambling jack elliott i met woody in january
cincinnati smelled like the
ziéeadz
god
talk to
you
man
just
have it
in your

and up there
People twist your words, Woodrow.
Oh, they'll twist it every whim.
It's thugs that run the unions now
and use your songs like hymns.
Once your music danced on women's thighs
in the arch of a hobo's brow.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what they've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Oh, the trains leave every morning.
Some go east and some go west.
And the clacking of the iron
is the sound you love the best.
It's the great escape from railroad bulls
and the Coney Island girls.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what they've done
to your brown-eyed boy with curls.
Sing the truth, scream it loud.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what they've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
All those boxcars full of Chinese junk,
the caboose has been junk-piled.
And we're all buying groceries now.
From men with crooked smiles.
You were a drunken, wild misogyneer
and your politics were crude.
As you sat home writing nursery rhymes
and drawing women ***.
And all those politicians' breaths stink bad,
be they left or be they right.
And the ones who play the game,
and the ones who play with rhetoric
are not the ones who find.
Don't go coming round here, Woodrow.
They'll stretch you from a rope.
And your corpse won't ever find a bar
where a man can drink and smoke.
Sing the truth, sing it loud.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Did you hear the screen door slam off?
Woodrow's gone again.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done to your brown-eyed baby now.
He's writing obscene letters now.
The feds might bring him in.
But every song he ever wrote
is hanging on the breeze.
With the laundry in the Guthrie yard
full of Huntington's disease.
So, Woodrow, rest in peace, old pal.
There ain't nothing for you.


There ain't nothing for you here.
We're in the scrub old country now.
The land of dread and fear.
And whitey's in the woodpile.
And the writing's on the wall.
But your ring of truth still echoes down
the grey stone clinic halls.
Sing the truth.
Scream it loud.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what they've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
So, here's to all outsiders.
All the ones who could not fit.
The troubadour, the prisoners.
The drunken Indian.
Oh, the circus freaks, the wounded lovers.
We'll make it through somehow.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, we are riding blind
with your brown-eyed baby now.
Sing the truth.
Scream it loud.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Scream the truth.
Scream it loud.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.
Oh, Mrs. Guthrie, look what we've done
to your brown-eyed baby now.