�Woody spent his life, like a lot of us, searching for things to love. A little guy sloping down a dusty road, looking for something he couldn�t name.� �Millard Lampell

Says Mr. Guthrie:

I hate a song that makes you think that you�re not any good. I hate a song that makes you think you are just born to lose. I am out to fight those kind of songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood.
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I guess I hoped too much when I was a kid.
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It was hot and dry and gingery and spicey, and cloudy, and smooth, and windy and cold, and threatening rain or snow. I took another big swallow and my shirt came unbuttoned and my insides burnt like I was pouring myself full of home-made soapy dishwater. I drank it all down, and when I woke up I was out of a job.
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Days tried to thumb a ride in a car. Night rode the freights to make time. You hate to just sleep all night and not get anywhere. You hate it even worse when a good hot meal is waiting for you at the other end of the line and ain�t had none in 3 days.
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Billionaires cause hoboes, and hoboes make billionaires. Yet both cuss the other and say they are wrong�but personal I ruther trust the hoboes. Most of what I know I learned from the kids and the hoboes. Kids first. Hoboes second. Rich folks last�and I don�t give a dam if you like it or not.
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I spoke for equal rights for all races of people, Hindu, Japanese, Chinese, Okies, Arkies, Texans, Dust Bowl Refugees, and Migratory Workers. I cussed out high rents, robbing landlords, and loan sharks, finance companies, and punk politicians in all offices.
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Special to The People�s World: October 7. A big, long, tall, husky, loud, noisy 8 � pound Baby Boy arrived at my house. Been a watchin him mighty close to see if he�s a right-winger or a left-winger. Impossible to keep covers on him. Kicks worse then a millionaire getting taxed 2 cents.
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With all these poor folks wandering around the country as homeless as little doggies, what I should do is strap on a couple of six-shooters and blow open the doors of the bank and feed people and give them houses. The only reason I don�t do that is because I ain�t got the guts.
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I�ve always called it being lonesome. You can get lonesome for a lot of things. You can get lonesome for a job, lonesome for some spending money, lonesome for some drinking whiskey, lonesome for a good time, pretty gals, wine women and song. Thinking that you are down and out and disgusted and busted and can�t be trusted, why, it gives you a lonesome feeling. Somehow the world has sorta turned against you.
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I have always been hot-tempered and stubborn and full of lots of nervous energy, and in my banging around over the country, I found my only fuel was to be very independent, stand alone, contrive, invent, imagine, and as time rolled along, I got a smattering of political education.
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I am stormy like the weather and I do a lot of useless tossing and whirling and pitching.
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Sonny Terry blew and whipped, beat, fanned and petted his harmonica, cooed to it like a weed hill turtle dove, cried to it like some worried woman come to ease his worried mind. He put the tobacco sheds of North and South Carolina in it and all of the blistered and hurt and hardened hands cheated and left empty, hurt and left crying, robbed and left hungry, pilfered and left starving, beaten and left dreaming.
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Music is just a handy way of
telling what�s on your mind
No mind
No music

Says Bob Dylan: �I know Woody. I know Woody�I know him and met him and saw him and sang to him. I know Woody�Goddamn.�