Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

When We Sing The Blues, We're Singin' Out Our Hearts, We're Singing Out Our Feelings. Maybe We're Hurt And Just Can't Answer Back, Then We Sing Or Maybe Even Hum The Blues.

Gods Always Love The People Who Make 'em.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death.

Trees And Plants Always Look Like The People They Live With, Somehow.