Yesterday's just a memory, tomorrow is never what it's supposed to be.
Shakespeare, he's in the alley with his pointed shoes and his bells, speaking to some French girl who says she knows me well.
Too much of nothing, it just makes a fellow mean.
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.
You get older. You start having hopes for other people rather than yourself.
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb/I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from/Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer/It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.