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Woody Guthrie
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Narrator [Speech]
I don't know how far I'm going to have to go To see my own self or to hear my own voice I tuned in on the radio and for hours never heard it And then I went to the moving picture shown And never heard it there I put handful of coins into machines and watched records turn But voice there was no voice of mine I mean it was not my voice The words not words that I hear in my own ears When I walk along and look at faces I set here in a Jewish delicatessen, and I order a hot pastrami Sandwich on rye bread and I hear the lady ask me Would you like to have a portion of cole slaw on the side And I know when I heard her speak that She spoke my voice And I told her I would take my slaw on a side dish please And I would like to have a glass of tea with lemon please And she knew that I was speaking her words And a fellow sat across at a table near my wall And spoke as he ate his salami and drank his beer And somehow I had the feeling As I heard him speak, and he spoke a long time, And not one word was in my personal language, But I could tell by the deep sound, by the full tone Of his voice that he spoke my language And I suppose you may wonder just how he could speak In a dialect that I could not savvy nor understand And yet understand every sound that he made I learned to do this a long time ago Walking up and down the sideroads and the main stems 更多更詳盡歌詞 在 ※ Mojim.com 魔鏡歌詞網 Of this land here I learned to listen this way when I washed dishes on the ships I had to learn how to do it when I walked ashore in Africa And in Scotland and in Ireland and in Britain, London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Scots towns and Anglo's farms, Irish canals and railroads bridges, Highlander's cows and horses And here I knew the speech was the same as mine but It was the dialect again, nasal, throatsy, deep chesty, From the stomach, from the lungs, high in the head, pitched up and down, And here I had to learn again To say this is my language this is part of my voice Oh but I have not even heard this voice, these voices, On the stages, screens, radios, records, juke boxes, In magazines nor not in newspapers, seldom in courtrooms, And more seldom when students and policemen are studying the faces Behind the voices And I thought as I saw a drunken streetwalking man mutter And spit and curse into the wind out the café's plate glass, That maybe, if I looked close enough, I might hear Some more of my voice And I ate as quiet as I could, so as keep my eyes And my ears and my feelings wide open And did hear Heard all that I came to hear here in Coney Island 's Jewish air Heard reflections, recollections, seen faces in memory, Heard voices untangle their words before me And I knew by the feeling I felt that here was my voice.
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