Blind faith in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed.

To her Cheshire smile, I'll stand on file, she's all I ever wanted. But you let your blue walls get in the way of these facts.

I heard a political message in rock music. A liberation message. A message of freedom. I heard it in Elvis' voice.

Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz between what's flesh and what's fantasy.

Most artists I know consider themselves to be phonies, along with the feeling that there's something that you're doing is essential, essential to communicate, and deeply, deeply real.

Now those memories come back to haunt me they haunt me like a curse.

Is a dream a lie if it don't come true? Or is it something worse?