There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy and God I know I'm one.

Masters of the bluff and masters of the proposition, but the enemy I see wears a cloak of decency.

All these people that I used to know, they're an illusion to me now. Some are mathematicians, some are carpenters' wives.

Since my feet are now fast and point away from the past, I'll bid farewell and be down the line.

I don't write the songs; I just write 'em down.

I think of a hero as someone who understands the degree of responsibility that comes with his freedom.

I'm looking for a woman who's head is mixed up like mine.