Never Make It Perfect.

Anything I Can Sing, I Call A Song. Anything I Can't Sing, I Call A Poem.

How Many Years Can Some People Exist Before They're Allowed To Be Free.

They Can't Hurt Me. Sure, They Can Crush You And Kill You. They Can Lay You Out On 42nd And Broadway And Put Hoses On You And Flush You In The Sewers And Put You On The Subway And Carry You Out To Coney Island And Bury You On The Ferris Wheel. But I Refuse To Sit Here And Worry About Dying.

Come Writers And Critics Who Prophesize With Your Pen And Keep Your Eyes Wide The Chance Won't Come Again And Don't Speak Too Soon For The Wheel's Still In Spin And There's No Tellin' Who That It's Namin' For The Loser Now Will Be Later To Win For The Times They Are A-changin'.

Sold My Guitar To The Baker's Son For A Few Crumbs And A Place To Hide.