I Don't Write The Songs; I Just

Heard Ten Thousand Whispering And Nobody Listening. Heard One Person Starve, I Heard Many People Laughing. Heard The Song Of A Poet Who Died In The Gutter.

Gold Will Never Free Your Father, The Price, My Dear, Is You Instead.

As He Weeps To Wicked Birds Of Prey, Who Pick Up On His Bread Crumb Sins, And There Are No Sins Inside The Gates Of Eden.

I Never Could Guess Your Weight, Baby.

I Was Never A Topical Songwriter.