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Would I say, Peter Doherty'sa poet. A decadent, a thinker and a Blithe Spirit.

I Was Certain of His impending death, a creeping scene guided by the baser impulses, unpreventable. It Was So we made the best of What We Had MOST left with him, and Have him sing, write, or speak. Whatever

I liked, as long as it left us something, and we Would Be happy. It secured

The Possibility of Remembering him, in the future, as Though I Were Some philosopher or prophet or saint.

And I WAS.

For, somehow, I pulled through. Through what, I do not know, But It Must Have Been close to everything. Nevertheless I insisted on Those Socratic, insolent airs Had That put him in trouble with