If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer’s head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.

The blues – the sound of a sinner on revival day.

Life is like a trumpet – if you don’t put anything into it, you don’t get anything out of it.

You’ll never miss the water ’til the well runs dry.

You can never tell what's in a woman's mind, And if she's from Harlem, there's no use o' tryin

Saving was slow and painful.

I hate to see the evening sun go down.

Nature was my kindergarten.

Sometimes I feel like nothin,' somethin' throwed away, Somethin' throwed away. And then I get my guitar, play the blues all day.

In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.