Only in Canada could somebody with a voice like mine win 'Vocalist of the Year'.

Everytime you grab at love you will lose a snowflake of your memory

Out of the thousands who are known or who want to be known as poets, maybe one or two are genuine and the rest are fakes, hanging around the sacred precincts, trying to look like the real thing.

A sip of wine, a cigarette, And then it’s time to go. I tidied up the kitchenette; I tuned the old banjo. I’m wanted at the traffic-jam. They’re saving me a seat.

And clenching your fist for the ones like us Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty.

When you stop thinking about yourself all the time, a certain sense of repose overtakes you.

Fare thee well my nightingale, I lived but to be near you. Thow you are singing somewhere still I can no longer hear you.