I was born in revolution.

Injustice boils in men's hearts as does steel in its cauldron, ready to pour forth, white hot, in the fullness of time.

My address is like my shoes. It travels with me. I abide where there is a fight against wrong.

God almighty made women and the Rockefeller gang of thieves made the ladies.

Today the white child is sold for two dollars a week to the manufacturers.

The employment of children is doing more to fill prisons, insane asylums, almshouses, reformatories, slums, and gin shops than all the efforts of reformers are doing to improve society.

But in Shimabukuro's hands, as he breaks out experimental jazz, lays down a steady blues train, or shreds on rock anthems, this little jumping flea becomes a melodic monster.