Lord knows I've paid my dues getting through, tangled up in blue.

On the stone that remains carved next to his name, his epitaph plain, only a pawn in their game.

Either I'm too sensitive, or else I'm gettin' soft

Draft beer, not people.

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.

In songs, you have to tell people about something they didn't see and weren't there for, and you have to do it as if you were.

I gotta friend who spends his life, stabbing my picture with a bowie knife. Dreams of strangling me with a scarf, when my name comes up he pretends to barf.