It's Not A House, It's A Home.

Too Much Information About Nothing.

The Drunken Politician Leaps Upon The Street Where Mothers Weep, And The Saviors Who Are Fast Asleep, They Wait For You.

I Don't Know If I Call Myself A Poet Or Not. I Would Like To, But I'm Not Really Qualified To Make That Decision, Because I Come In On Such A Back Door, That I Don't Know What A Robert Frost Or A [john] Keats Or A T.s. Eliot Would Really Think Of My Stuff.

Here's The Thing With Me And The Religious Thing. This Is The Flat-out Truth: I Find The Religiosity And Philosophy In The Music. I Don't Find It Anywhere Else.

There Is A House In New Orleans They Call The Rising Sun, And It's Been The Ruin Of Many A Poor Boy And God I Know I'm One.