The night Hunter S. Thompson,
blew his head off,
Toy Box Tomato Girl,
went Gonzo Geisha on me.
Abandoning the old man’s love,
for pure unadulterated orgy,
intoxicating arms and legs,
intertwining lyrical sighs,
with bi young black,
and blond hard bodies,
tango tongues sharing saliva.
I assume the blue black hue,
of late night television,
as segregate candles,
was less exciting.
The night Hunter S. Thompson,
shot a hole...
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