My songs are personal music, they’re not communal. I wouldn’t want people singing along with me. It would sound funny. I’m not playing campfire meetings. I don’t remember anyone singing along with Elvis, Carl Perkins or Little Richard.
I don’t write the songs; I just write ’em down.
I’ve never gone for having a great voice, for cultivating one. I’m still not doing it now.
Art is a never-ending dance of illusions.
Suddenly I found you and the spirit in me sings, Don’t have to look no further, You’re the soul of many things.
There used to be a time when the idea of heroes was important. People grew up sharing those myths and legends and ideals. Now they grow up sharing McDonalds and Disneyland.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Opportunities may come along for you to convert something -something that exists into something that didn’t yet. That might be the beginning of it.
You walk into the room like a camel and then put your eyes in your pockets and your nose on the ground.
A cork screw to my heart, ever since we’ve been apart.
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey, who pick up on his bread crumb sins, and there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden.
Lord knows I’ve paid my dues getting through, tangled up in blue.
Watch waterfalls of pity roar, you feel to moan but unlike before, you discover that you’d just be one more person crying.
When you’re sad and when you’re lonely and you haven’t got a friend, just remember that death is not the end.
Ain’t no use jiving, ain’t no use joking, everything is broken.
Broken bottles, broken plates, broken switches, broken gates. Broken dishes, broken parts, streets are filled with broken hearts.
Mama’s in the factory, she ain’t got no shoes. Daddy’s in the alley, he’s looking for food.
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip, my toes to numb to step, wait only for my boot heels to be wandering.
The rifleman’s stalking the sick and the lame, preacherman seeks the same, who’ll get there first is uncertain.
You got men who can’t hold peace and women who can’t control their tongues. The rich seduce the poor, and the old seduce the young.