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.

I hate myself for loving you and the weakness that it showed. You were just a painted face on a trip down to suicide road.

A lot of people can't stand touring but to me it's like breathing. I do it because I'm driven to do it.

How can the life of such a man be in the palm of some fools hand?

I've never gone for having a great voice, for cultivating one. I'm still not doing it now.

A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes.

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people, they're drinking, thinking that they got it made. Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things, but you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it, babe.