Rap - So Many Words, So Little

George Jones Is A National Treasure And Should Be Treated Accordingly. A Unique Style So Often Emulated Even Inadvertently.

In Fact, I Take The View That God, In His Infinite Wisdom, Didn't Bother To Spring For Two Joints - Heaven And Hell. They're The Same Place, But Heaven Is When You Get Everything You Want And You Meet Mummy And Daddy And Your Best Friends And You All Have A Hug And A Kiss And Play Your Harps. Hell Is The Same Place - No Fire And Brimstone - But They Just All Pass By And Don't See You. There's Nothing, No Recognition. You're Waving, “it's Me, Your Father,” But You're Invisible. You're On A Cloud, You've Got Your Harp, But You Can't Play With Nobody Because They Don't See You. That's Hell.

Anything You Throw Yourself Into, You Better Get Yourself Out Of.

You're Sitting With Some Guys, And You're Playing And You Go, "ooh, Yeah!" That Feeling Is Worth More Than Anything. There's A Certain Moment When You Realize That You've Actually Just Left The Planet For A Bit And That Nobody Can Touch You. You're Elevated Because You're With A Bunch Of Guys That Want To Do The Same Thing As You. And When It Works, Baby, You've Got Wings. You Know You've Been Somewhere Most People Will Never Get; You've Been To A Special Place.

A Painter's Got A Canvas. The Writer's Got Reams Of Empty Paper. A Musician Has Silence.