What The Head Makes Cloudy The Heart

I Said, Baby, Do You Have No Shame? She Just Looked At Me, Uncomprehendingly, Like Cows At A Passing Train.

The Government Bugged The Men's Room In The Local Disco Lounge.

We're Being Treated To The Wisdom Of Some Puffed Up, Little Fart. Doing Exactly What I Used To Do, Pretensions To Anarchy And Art.

Sometimes Songwriters And Singers Forget That. They Get A Melody In Their Head And The Notes Will Take Precedence, So That They Wind Up Forcing A Word Onto A Melody. It Doesn't Ring True.

Playing The Drums Hurts My Back.