A Poem Is A Naked Person.

If My Thought-dreams Could Be Seen/ They'd Probably Put My Head In A Guillotine.

The Radio Makes Hideous Sounds.

You Can't Imagine Parlor Ballads Drifting Out Of High-rise Multi-towered Buildings. That Kind Of Music Existed In A More Timeless State Of Life.

I Was Born A Long Way From Where I Belong And I Am On My Way Home.

The Only Person You Have To Think About Lying Twice To Is Either Yourself Or To God. The Press Isn't Either Of Them. And I Just Figured They're Irrelevant.