I slowly surrender to the child in me who can't say goodbye.

Where's the church, who took the steeple, Religion's in the hands of some crazy ass people, Television preachers with bad hair and dimples, The God's honest truth is, it's not that simple

I'm living on things that excite me, be they pastry, or lobster, or love...

Give me oysters and beer, for dinner every day of the year, and I'll be fine.

Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years to late. Cannons don't thunder, there's nothing to plunder, I'm an over forty victim of fate.

I always said that I wouldn't use a teleprompter, and if I start to sing real flat, I'll hang it up.

My occupational hazard is my occupation's just not around.