Since We Don't Know Where We're Going,

High High In The Hills , High In A Pine Tree Bed. She's Tracing The Wind With That Old Hand, Counting The Clouds With That Old Chant, Three Geese In A Flock One Flew East One Flew West One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

There've Been A Lot More People Hurt On Astro-turf Than Grass.

There's Shames A Man Can Never Reason Away, Though He Looks Back And Piles Up Reasons Over Them Forty Dozen Deep. And Maybe Those Are The Shames A Man Never Should Reason Away.

That Ain't Me, That Ain't My Face. It Wasn't Even Me When I Was Trying To Be That Face. I Wasn't Even Really Me Them; I Was Just Being The Way I Looked, The Way People Wanted.

The Flock Gets Sight Of A Spot Of Blood On Some Chicken And They All Go To Peckin' At It, See, Till They Rip The Chicken To Shreds, Blood And Bones And Feathers. But Usually A Couple Of The Flock Gets Spotted In The Fracas, Then It's Their Turn. And A Few More Gets Spots And Gets Pecked To Death, And More And More. Oh, A Peckin' Party Can Wipe Out The Whole Flock In A Matter Of A Few Hours, Buddy, I Seen It. A Mighty Awesome Sight. The Only Way To Prevent It—with Chickens—is To Clip Blinders On Them. So's They Can't See.