We All Like Motorcycles To Some Degree.

All That Foreign Oil Controlling American Soil.

She Can Play My Guitar Note For Note, She Likes To Stick Her Tongue Down My Throat.

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.

People Talk Of Situations, Read Books, Repeat Quotations.

Good Intentions Can Be Evil, Both Hands Are Full Of Grease. You Know, Sometimes Satan Comes As A Man Of Peace.