They're selling postcards of the hanging.

It's not important what other people call you. If you yourself know you're a fake, that's tougher to live with.

The only person you have to think about lying twice to is either yourself or to God. The press isn't either of them. And I just figured they're irrelevant.

Bent out of shape from society's pliers, cares not to come up any higher, but rather get you down in the hole that he's in.

You say you're looking for someone who'll pick you up each time you fall, to gather flowers constantly and to come each time you call, a lover your life and nothing more. But it ain't me, babe.

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.

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