The world is more alive at night; it's like God isn't looking.

I feel my temperature rising. Help me, I'm flaming, I must be a hundred and nine.

On a cold and gray Chicago morning another little baby child is born in the ghetto, and his Mama cries.

I'm not kidding myself. My voice alone is just an ordinary voice. What people come to see is how I use it. If I stand still while I'm singing, I'm dead, man. I might as well go back to driving a truck.

Do the Clam, do the Clam, grab your barefoot baby by the hand.

When I first saw you with your smile so tender, my heart was captured, my soul surrendered.

When you get down to the nitty gritty, isn't it a pity that in this big city not one little bitty man will admit that he could have been a little wrong.