William Blake: I came here to talk about my job.
John Dickinson: The only job you're goin' to get is pushing up daisies from a pine box.
Train Fireman: I'll tell you one thing for sure... I wouldn't trust no words written down on no piece of paper, especially from no Dickinson out in the town of Machine... you're just as likely to find your own grave.
Nobody: That weapon will replace your tongue. You will learn to speak through it. And your poetry will now be written with blood.