Now the wintertime is coming The windows are filled with frost I went to tell everybody But I could not get across Well, I wanna be your lover, baby I don't wanna be your boss Don't say I never warned you When your train gets lost.

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.

Everybody has their own idea of what's a poet. Robert Frost, President Johnson, T.S.Eliot, Rudolf Valentino - they're all poets. I like to think of myself as the one who carries the light bulb.

Yesterday is just a memory.

For whose sake did you live, for whose sake did you die? Forgive me, baby, for what I didn't do.

The hollow horn plays wasted words, proves to warn that he not busy being born is busy dying.

You can't imagine parlor ballads drifting out of high-rise multi-towered buildings. That kind of music existed in a more timeless state of life.