“My heart has made its mind upAnd I’m afraid it’s you.Whatever you’ve got lined up,My heart has made its mind upAnd if you can’t be signed upThis year, next year will do.My heart has made its mind upAnd I’m afraid it’s you.”

“At lunchtime I bought a huge orangeThe size of it made us all laugh.I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—They got quarters and I had a half.And that orange it made me so happy,As ordinary things often doJust lately. The shopping. A walk in the parkThis is peace and contentment. It's new.The rest of the day was quite easy.I did all my jobs on my listAnd enjoyed them and had some time over.I love you. I'm glad I exist.”

“On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.I wipe them away with a black woolly gloveAnd try not to notice I've fallen in loveOn Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.But the juke-box inside me is playing a songThat says something different. And when was it wrong?On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hairI am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.the head does its best but the heart is the boss-I admit it before I am halfway across”

“Bloody men are like bloody buses - you wait for about a year and as soon as one approaches your stop two or three others appear.”

“Everybody in this room is bored.The poems drag, the voice and gestures irk.He can't be interrupted or ignored.Poor fools, we came here of our own accordAnd some of us have paid to hear this jerk.Everybody in the room is bored.The silent cry goes up, 'How long, O Lord?'But nobody will scream or go berserk.He won't be interrupted or ignored.Or hit by eggs, or savaged by a hordeOf desperate people maddened by his work.Everybody in the room is bored,Except the poet. We are his reward,Pretending to indulge in his every quirk.He won't be interrupted or ignored.At last it's over. How we all applaud!The poet thanks us with a modest smirk.Everybody in the room was bored.He wasn't interrupted or ignored.”

“Bloody men are like bloody buses —You wait for about a yearAnd as soon as one approaches your stopTwo or three others appear.You look at them flashing their indicators,Offering you a ride.You’re trying to read the destinations,You haven’t much time to decide.If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gazeWhile the cars and the taxis and lorries go byAnd the minutes, the hours, the days.”

“Every song has a memory; every song has the ability to make or break your heart, shut down the heart, and open the eyes. But I’m afraid if you look at a thing long enough; it loses all of its meaning”