Old As She Was, She Still Missed

Six Months Of Looking For A Job Had Made Me An Expert At Picking Out The People Who, Like Me, Were Hurrying Up To Wait - In Somebody's Outer Anything For A Chance To Make It Through Their Inner Doors To Prove That You Could Type Two Words A Minute, Or Not Drool On Your Blouse While Answering Difficult Questions About Your Middle Initial And Date Of Birth.

There Is A Problem In America. An Irish Or Polish American Can Write A Story And It's An American Story. When A Black American Writes A Story, It's Called A Black Story. I Take Exception To That. Every Artist Has Articulated To His Own Experience. The Problem Is That Some People Do Not See Blacks As Americans.

Words Themselves Are Innocuous; It Is The Consensus That Gives Them True Power.

They All Trying To Say Something With Music That You Can't Say With Plain Talk. There Ain't Really No Words For Love Or Pain. And The Way I See It, Only Fools Go Around Trying To Talk Their Love Or Talk Their Pain. So The Smart People Make Music And You Can Kinda Hear About It Without Them Saying Anything.

Why Do I Write? The Truth, The Unvarnished Truth, Is That I Haven't A Clue.