They're Selling Postcards Of The Hanging.

Fame It's Like... When You Look Through A Window, Say You Pass A Little Pub, Or An Inn. You Look Through The Window And You See People Talking And Carrying On. You,can Watch Outside The Window And See Them All Being Very Real With Each Other. But When You Walk Into The Room, It's Over. I Don't Pay Any Attention To It.

How Many Times Must A Man Look Up Before He Can See The Sky? Yes, 'n' How Many Ears Must One Man Have Before He Can Hear People Cry? Yes, 'n' How Many Deaths Will It Take Till He Knows That Too Many People Have Died? The Answer, My Friend, Is Blowin' In The Wind, The Answer Is Blowin' In The Wind.

I Was Lingering Out On The Pavement. There Was A Missing Person Inside Of Myself And I Needed To Find Him . . . I Felt Done For, An Empty Burned-out Wreck . . . Wherever I Am, I'm A '60s Troubadour, A Folk-rock Relic, A Wordsmith From Bygone Days, A Fictitious Head Of State From A Place Nobody Knows.

Sometimes You Get Out From Behind The Wheel And Let Someone Else Step On The Gas.

Couldn't Help But Make Me Feel Ashamed To Live In A Land Where Justice Is A Game.