Mourn The Dead, Fight Like Hell For

My Friends, It Is Solidarity Of Labor We Want. We Do Not Want To Find Fault With Each Other, But To Solidify Our Forces And Say To Each Other: We Must Be Together; Our Masters Are Joined Together And We Must Do The Same Thing.

Little Girls And Boys, Barefooted, Walked Up And Down Between The Endless Rows Of Spindles, Reaching Thin Little Hands Into The Machinery To Repair Snapped Threads

Men's Hearts Are Cold. They Are Indifferent.

But In Shimabukuro's Hands, As He Breaks Out Experimental Jazz, Lays Down A Steady Blues Train, Or Shreds On Rock Anthems, This Little Jumping Flea Becomes A Melodic Monster.

All The Average Human Being Asks Is Something He Can Call A Home; A Family That Is Fed And Warm; And Now And Then A Little Happiness; Once In A Long While An Extravagance.