I’m a rompin’, stompin’, piano playing son of a bitch. A mean son of a bitch.

Hippies? Why, I’m the original.

If I’m going to Hell, I’m going there playing the piano.

Either be hot or cold. If you are lukewarm, the Lord will spew you forth from His mouth.

I’m a rompin’, stompin’, piano playing son of a bitch. A mean son of a bitch.

When they look back on me I want ’em to remember me not for all my wives, although I’ve had a few, and certainly not for any mansions or high livin’ money I made and spent. I want ’em to remember me simply for my music.

Other people – they practice and they practice… these fingers of mine, they got brains in ’em. You don’t tell them what to do – they do it. God given talent.

You’ve got to walk and talk with God to go to heaven… I have the devil in me! If I didn’t have, I’d be Christian!

Y’know, there’s nothin’ like tearing up a good club now and then.