Yes, I am a pirate two hundred years too late.
My mother insisted that her children read.
Songwriters write songs, but they really belong to the listener.
I have been drunk now for over two weeks.
If the phone doesn’t ring, it’s me.
Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years too late. Cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothing to plunder, I’m an over forty victim of fate.
Bryl-cream, a little dab will do you.
The beautiful people in the magazines, got the normal ones living beyond their means.
So I’ll put on my bob marley tape And practice what I preach Get jah lost in the reggae mon As I walk along the beach.
Nobody else cares about you at the beginning of your career except you-and, of course, your mother. Your mother is there because that is what mothers do.
You get religion as your hair turns grey.
He went to Paris looking for answers to questions that bothered him so. He was impressive, young and aggressive, saving the world on his own.
Back to my childhood where those monsters reside. They snack on innocence and dine on self esteem.
Quitting doesn’t enter my mind.
Pickup’s washed and you just got paid, with any luck at all you might even get laid.
When reality looks too ugly, fantasize.
Truth is stranger than fishin.
That to me is the way any good romantic would look at his life: Live it first, then write it down before you go.
You know Death will get you in the end, but if you are smart and have a sense of humor, you can thumb your nose at it for awhile.
And I try to give the best bang for the buck. I love performing more than anything else.