Broken bottles, broken plates, broken switches, broken gates. Broken dishes, broken parts, streets are filled with broken hearts.

She can play my guitar note for note, she likes to stick her tongue down my throat.

Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks.

A lot of people from the press want to talk to me, but they never do.

I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be.

The confessional singer-songwriter movement of the 1970s was in full swing, and Bob Dylan's emotional album [ Blood on the Tracks] resonated with the times. There would be other hits, but never the same alchemy of emotion and time.

Freedom just around the corner for you, but with the truth so far off, what good will it do?