Well, the moral of the story, The moral of this song, Is simply that one should never be Where one does not belong. So when you see your neighbor carryin' somethin', Help him with his load, And don't go mistaking Paradise For that home across the road.

Ain't nothing too discreet about the disease of conceit.

Everyone of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal, pouring off every page like it was written in my soul from me to you.

There ought to be a law about you coming around.

It rubs me the wrong way, a camera... It's a frightening thing...Cameras make ghosts out of people.

Time is an ocean, but it ends at the shore.

Fearing not that I'd become my enemy In the instant that I preach