"Turn back the pages of history,
and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs,
but they lived rather than existed,"
said Hunter S. Thompson
at age 17,

before he became The Duke,
and shaved off a leg in Doonsbury cartoons,
before he rapped the sharp corner of his shot glass,
so too many times,
on the inch thick enamel,
of the Woody Creek Tavern bar top,
and waited until closing time
to begin blowing lines,
out of the divets he'd made.

The people clapping,
the moon attacking,
the red bone blood of America pumping past his eyes.


After he died, everyone there had a Hunter story:

Hunter shot his hot girl assistant in the *** by mistake,
but he felt like **** about it.

Hunter had a dozen red cheeked lasses he skied with,
but he never messed with them.

Hunter showed up in a Cadillac convertible packed with
strippers dressed burlesque.

But it was hard to tell just exactly what he was up to with
the strippers, the peacocks,
or anything else.

Alot of the stories had ****** implications,
but what they mostly implied
was he was cool about it.
He didn't write any of those stories.

Despite all evidence to the contrary he liked his privacy,
and what peace he found in rare quiet.
And he made **** sure they'd shoot his ashes
out of a ******* canon when he died.

The canon is still there.
So are the peacocks.