A dreamer of pictures, I run in the night: you [can] see us together, chasing the moonlight – my cinnamon girl.

I wanna live with a cinnamon girl; I can be happy the rest of my life with a cinnamon girl.

It’s hard enough losing, without the confusion of knowing I tried. But you’ve made your mind up; that I’ll be alone now, there’s nothing to hide.

When we were living together, I thought that I knew you would stay. Still, when you left me, I tried to pretend we could make it some way.

There’s a fever on the freeway; blacks out the night. There’s a slipping on the stairway – just don’t feel right. And there’s a rumbling in the bedroom and a flashing of light; [then] there’s the old laughing lady, [and] everything is all right.

See the drunkard of the village falling on the street: [he] can’t tell his ankles from the rest of his feet. He loves his old laughing lady ’cause her taste is so sweet, but his laughing lady’s loving ain’t the kind he can keep.

I’ve been looking for a woman to save my life, not to beg or to borrow.  A woman with the feeling of losing once or twice – who knows how could it be tomorrow?

What if she came to me -  would she be kind? And if she stayed with me – do you think that she’d like to do anything I would, or would she leave me?

All of a sudden she was on my mind: I wasn’t ready for her kind. And she was taking her time.

There was a woman he knew about a year or so ago: she had something that he needed, and he pleaded with her not to go. On the day that she left, he died, but it did not show.