revolutionary in more ways than one.
Stood on the same stage as Hendrix,
cancer eating you from the inside out,
and you still found time to light a cigarette,
inhale deeply, and shout
about the hypocrisy
of living in the world’s greatest democracy.
You pondered the injustice of the failed
assassination attempt on Regan,
that politicians all are devils,
and Bush is Satan’s son.
It was god and guns and love and peace,
it was an Alabama uncle’s love for his niece.
You asked us to consider why
people who believe in creationism
look remarkably unevolved,
and what would Jesus think
of people who wore crosses.
You told the suck your own cock joke,
and suggested we hunt and kill Billy Ray Cyrus
(now, with the benefit of hindsight,
there would have been an unexpected bonus
that even you couldn’t have foreseen).
You told a joke about the LA riots,
In a room full of headers,
And got a laugh, even though we knew
Belfast ones were better.
You believed to the end that
pornography is good,
war is wrong,
and all drugs should be legal,
not compromising a single inch.
When three shots rang out
and you fell dead to the stage
nine hundred people didn’t flinch.