See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeans. Wearin' yesterday's misfortunes like a smile. Once he had a future full of money, love, and dreams, Which he spent like they was going out of style. And he keeps right on a changin', for the better or the worse. And searchin' for a shrine he's never found. Never knowin' if believin' is a blessin' or a curse. Or if the going up is worth to coming down. He's a poet. He's a picker. He's a prophet. He's a pusher. He's a pilgrim and a preacher and a problem when he's stoned. He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home. Welcome all, to my little place, out here, Among The Joshua Trees.
In public statement, TSA lies about the Constitution