I sang in art school, just to get money to smoke.

My parents told me I'd point to a bed of flowers and say 'Pink. Pretty,' before I knew any other words.

But now it's just another show, you leave em laughing when you go. And if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.

Bows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air and feather canyons everywhere, I've looked at clouds that way.

Bob [Dylan] is not authentic at all. He's a plagiarist, and his name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception. We are like night and day, he and I.

The Hollywood sirens are shrieking, while down some search lit alley runs some lost belief.

everything comes and goes; pleasure moves on too early and trouble leaves too slow