If There Is A World Here In

My Mother Wanted Me To Learn How To Read Music. She'd Given Fiddles To My Two Older Brothers, But They'd Rebelled. I Came Along And My Father Said, "oh, Let Peter Enjoy Himself." What She Did Was Leave Musical Instruments All Around The House. Whistles, Marimbas, Squeeze Boxes, A Piano And Organ. By Age Six Or Seven, I Could Bang Out A Simple Tune On Almost Anything. I Developed A Good Ear, So I Didn't Learn To Read Music Until I Taught Myself At Age Eighteen, 'cause I Was Hearing So Many Good Songs I Couldn't Possibly Remember Them All.

This World Is So Full Of Hypocrisy, The Only Way You Can Be Honest Is To Be A Hermit.

In The Sixties, During The Vietnam War, When Anarchists And Pacifists And Socialists, Democrats And Republicans, Decent-hearted Americans, All Recoiled With Horror At The Bloodbath, We Came Together.

Rulers Should Be Careful About What Songs Are Allowed To Be Sung.

I Decline To Discuss, Under Compulsion, Where I Have Sung, And Who Has Sung My Songs, And Who Else Has Sung With Me, And The People I Have Known.