The Blues Is Instilled In Every Musical

Anything That I'm Doing I'm Writing Specifically For A Particular Project.

People Think I'm A Miserable Sod But It's Only Because I Get Asked Such Bloody Miserable Questions.

And I Wish That I Was Made Of Stone So That I Would Not Have To See A Beauty Impossible To Define A Beauty Impossible To Believe A Beauty Impossible To Endure The Blood Imparted In Little Sips The Smell Of You Still On My Hands As I Bring The Cup Up To My Lips No God Up In The Sky No Devil Beneath The Sea Could Do The Job That You Did, Baby Of Bringing Me To My Knees

I Want To Write Songs That Are So Sad, The Kind Of Sad Where You Take Someone's Little Finger And Break It In Three Places.

Brother, Be A Brother, Fill This Tiny Cup Of Mine. And Please, Sir, Make It Whiskey: I Have No Head For Wine!