Every Writer At The New Yorker Is

You Have To Know That You're The Best Whether Anybody Else Tells You That Or Not. And That You'll Be Around, In One Way Or Another, Longer Than Anybody Else. Somewhere Inside Of You, You Have To Believe That.

Crimson Flames Tied Through My Ears Rollin' High And Mighty Traps Pounced With Fire On Flaming Roads Using Ideas As My Maps "we'll Meet On Edges, Soon," Said I Proud 'neath Heated Brow. Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now. Half-wracked Prejudice Leaped Forth "rip Down All Hate," I Screamed Lies That Life Is Black And White Spoke From My Skull. I Dreamed Romantic Facts Of Musketeers Foundationed Deep, Somehow. Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now.

...don't Criticize What You Can't Understand, Your Sons And Your Daughters Are Beyond Your Command.

There's A Lot Of False Prophets Around And That's The Trouble. People Say They Think They Know What's Right And Other People Get People To Follow Them Because They Have A Certain Type Of Charisma, And There's Always People Willing To Take Over. People Want A Leader. And There Will Be More And More Of Them.

I've Been Out In Front Of A Dozen Dead Oceans.