“And the earth died screaming, while I lay dreaming.”

Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends.

Never trust a man in a blue trench coat, never drive a car when you’re dead.

Got a head full of lightning, a hat full of rain.

I’ll tell you all my secrets but I lie about my past.

I like Thelonious Monk, he’s so gnarled, he’s like a piece of machinery that’s pulled up the bolts on the floor and gone off on its own.

The dog won’t bite if you beat Him with a bone.

Mostly I straddle reality and the imagination. My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket. My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane.

I put food on the table and roof overhead. But I’d trade it all tomorrow for the highway instead.

I’m not fighting for justice. I am not fighting for freedom. I am fighting for my life and another day in the world here.

Bill Hicks – blowtorch, excavator, truthsayer, and brain specialist. He will correct your vision. Others will drive on the road he built.

Well I got a bad liver and broken heart, yeah, I drunk me a river since you tore me apart.

I think all songs should have weather in them. Names of towns and streets, and they should have a couple of sailors. I think those are just song prerequisites.

Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at.

A gentleman is someone who can play the accordion, but doesn’t.

Writing songs is like capturing birds without killing them. Sometimes you end up with nothing but a mouthful of feathers.

We have a deficit of wonder right now.

Oh say, can you see, it’s really such a mess. Every inch of earth is a fighting nest. Giant pencial and lipstick tube shaped things, continue to rain and cause scream and pain, and the arctic stains from silver blue to bloody red.

When darkness came, and it did, I learned that I can scream at the top of my lungs without making any sound at all.

Ever since we achieved a breakthrough in the area of recombinant DNA in 1973, left-wing nuts and environmental kooks have been screaming that we will create some kind of Frankenstein bug or Andromeda Strain that will destroy us all.

There are no magics or elves or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must wizard a track through our own screaming weed.

Pride – it screams a lot louder than love sometimes.

A screaming comes across the sky.

I want to scream and cry until my lungs dry out the air that I breathe, maybe my death would be beneficial to them.

I came into this world screaming. I plan to leave it quieter, softer and letting everything I’ve done do the talking.