Coffee in the morning, cocaine afternoons.
How long can you hear someone crying – how long can you hear someone dying – before you ask yourself why?
I don’t know where I’m running now, I’m just running on.
I’m gonna be a happy idiot and struggle for the legal tender. Where the ads take aim and lay their claim to the heart and the soul of the spender. And believe in whatever may lie in those things that money can buy, though true love could have been a contender.
Out into the cool of the evening strolls the pretender. He knows that all his hopes and dreams begin and end there.
Caught between the longing for love, and the struggle for the legal tender, where the sirens sing and the church bells ring, and the junk man pounds his fender. Where the veterans dream of the fight, fast asleep at the traffic light, and the children solemnly wait for the ice cream vendor.
Talk about celestial bodies.
I followed those highway signs and I’ve run down those thin white lines.
It’s not like I’m looking to describe something that’s only true of my own circumstances. It’s beyond. It’s way inside, you know. It’s reaching inside to something that you have in common with many.
When you turn out the light, I’ve got to hand it to me. Looks like it’s you and me again tonight Rosie.
Oh Lord, are there really people starving still?
No matter how fast I run, I can’t get away from me.
Famine and disaster, right there in front of you, and the more you watch, the less you do.
Say a prayer for the pretender, who started out so young and strong only to surrender.
Eleven on a scale of ten, honey, let me introduce you to my redneck friend.
I let her do some of my laundry and she slipped in a few meals in between, and next thing I remember, she was all moved in.
They sell us the President the same way they sell us our clothes and cars.
I was doing my best Bogart, but I was having trouble getting into her jeans.
Let the music keep our spirits high, let the buildings keep our children dry, let creation reveal its secrets by and bye.
People look around you, the signs are everywhere. You’ve left it for somebody other than you to be the one who to care.
Doctor, my eyes cannot see the sky. Is this the prize for having learned how not to cry?