If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.
My advice to the women of America is to raise more hell and fewer dahlias.
You ought to be out raising hell. This is the fighting age. Put on your fighting clothes.
Somewhere between raising hell and amazing grace, Lord I know just how they feel.
I always had a pretty good knack for raising hell.
Sit up, join up, get on line, get in touch, find out who's raising hell and join them. No use waiting on a bunch of wussy politicians.
You have typewriters, presses. And a huge audience. How about raising hell?
I have undeniable evidence that many have awakened as a result of my raising hell. Raising hell is SO American rock-and-roll. And of course even soulless wimps love killer music and my incredible guitar tone.
Drinking in a honky tonk, just kicking hippies asses and raising hell.
Kansas had better stop raising corn and begin raising hell.
For the first and only time, I was more worried about getting hurt by the crowd than by the guy I was fighting. I got a pretty good blast when introduced. The crowd was hollering and raising hell. I looked around for my bodyguard, a colorful New York character named Wild Bill Lyons, who packed two pearl-handled pistols and used to talk a lot about his days in the West. Wild Bill was under the ring, hiding.
Sonny Boy Williamson (II) was a beautiful guy, a straight guy... (but) he was always raising hell one way or another, so you never could tell if he was drunk or sober.
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