And I had not much of a voice. I didn't play that great guitar either.

The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle to come.

I always felt I was scraping the bottom of the barrel trying to get a song together.

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love.

I've always held the song in high regard because songs have got me through so many sinks of dishes and so many humiliating courting events.

Your servant here, he has been told to say it clear, to say it cold: It's over, it ain't going any further And now the wheels of heaven stop you feel the devil's riding crop Get ready for the future: it is murder

I see people allowing their lives to diminish, to become shallow, so they can't enjoy the deep wells of experience. Maybe it's always been this way, when the heart tends to shut down. If only the heart shut down and there were no repercussions, it would be O.K., but when the heart shuts down, the whole system goes into a kind of despair that is intolerable.