Hunter S. Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

Hunter Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

It was in a moment dark, I couldn't see the sky
an angel hovered overhead, she was the reason why
She brought me hope of the returning of such fun
and a bottle of gin, and a loaded gun

With the .45 I shot the beefeater, and drank from the hole in his heart
so bitter like my own, but what a place to start!
Then Jose C came slurping by, with his girlfriend Margarita,
but I got sick of them after a while, and became a Technicolor repeater...

That Fat Bastard Shiraz, his redness stained the floor
irking my little angel, who showed him quick the door.
My Technicolor yawning was ever “abondanzo,”
I briefly felt, for one brief click, I was living my life gonzo!

We drank and shot, and shot and drank until the night was dawn
and passed out in the front yard after puking on the lawn.
Our bullet dreams chased doggie licks, aroused by the neighbor's barfeater,
when down came the curtain and the lights went out, thanks for watching misere theater!

Tonight's show was brought to you by pain and greed and loss
and the letters L and D, and some tacos that we tossed,
and by little shoulder angels, and the little guns they tote,
and a finger to pull a trigger, and that's all that she wrote.

'Tis Naught But Jabberish

Jabberishy

‘Twas Thursday night on Monday morn
Did crinch and cryngle on the boaf
All twimsick were the cheetalopes
And the hyoo flaffs fidloaf.

Zoom zoom the Branglebogs mi’lad
The choom that skwank, the vram that gangk.
Sendoop the garpletom and vad
The smarlish gigglepan!

He took his pencil and his pad
(Eons passed by as on he tread)
So camped he ‘mong the cryberry bush
And wrote of Gilead.

And! As in muselish frame he wrote
The Branglebogs’ effluvium
Came flarting through the bramblan
And skidgered as it came.

Eins, Zwei, Eins, Zwei! And thruff, and thruff!
His number two went Cricky-crack!
He broke its lead and dropped his head
And came, a sulking back

And hast though writ the Branglebogs?
No, my dear? Then go to your room
No soup! For you, an empty spoon!
He castigated the buffoon.

‘twas Thursday night on Monday morn
Did crinch and cryngle on the boaf
All twimsick were the cheetalopes
And the hyoo flaffs fidloaf.

Monday Nonsense!

Did I Whither, Dideraye?

Whither dither, Dideraye?
Whither did I die?
Did I wither, Dideraye?
Did I whither, die?

Would I dither, did I, wood?
I would dither, aye!
Wood I wither, did I dither?
Did I, Dideraye?

I did dither, did I whither?
Did I, Dideraye?
I did whither, did I n’ither!
I did, Dideraye!

Wither I did, n’ither eye,
N’ither did I die.
Whither I did, n’ither die,
I did, Dideraye!