I can see her lying back in her faded dress in a room where do what you don't confess.

Everything is trust, all the rest is dust.

I once performed The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald to about 15 sea captains. The song was about a ship that broke in half and sank.

Think about the fool who by his virtue can be found in a most unusual situation playing jester to the clown.

There is always something wrong with a song, you can't be perfect.

If there's a reason for the way that life is I'd like to find it. After all, who's life is it?

All that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters.