I Like To Write About Wherever I

Take It Easy, But Take It.

I Worked In Your Orchards Of Peaches And Prunes. I Slept On The Ground In The Light Of The Moon. On The Edge Of The City You'll See Us And Then, We Come With The Dust And We Go With The Wind.

The World Is Filled With People Who Are No Longer Needed. And Who Try To Make Slaves Of All Of Us. And They Have Their Music And We Have Ours. Theirs, The Wasted Songs Of A Superstitious Nightmare. And Without Their Music And Ideological Miscarriages To Compare Our Songs Of Freedom To, We'd Not Have Any Opposite To Compare Music With - - And Like The Drifting Wind, Hitting Against No Obstacle, We'd Never Know Its Speed, Its Power.

A Song Ain't Nothing But A Conversation Fixed Up To Where You Can Talk It Over And Over Without Getting Tired Of It.

I Have Decided Long Ago That My Songs And Ballads Would Not Get The Hugs And Kisses Of The Capitalistic Experts.