On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time. You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain. Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came in the year of the cat.

Looking so cool, his greed is hard to conceal, he's fresh out of law school, you gave him a license to steal.

Only two to three per cent of an audience is interested in words and pays attention to lyrics; most of the rest of it is about image or the beat or the sound, or else it's a tribal thing - country & western, rap, heavy metal, with historical folk rock off in some kind of cult.

Nothing that's forced can ever be right, if it doesn't come naturally, leave it.

The literati in their cellarsPerform semantic tarantellas.I wish I did it half as well as them.

She doesn't give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.

I know there's a big bad world out there, but I rarely come across it.