Keith Richards, if he were a children’s book

sppnGoodnight spoon and goodnight stash.
The sun is up. It’s time to crash.

Goodnight booze and pills and crystals,
Moroccan scarves and German pistols.


The groupies snorted all the blow;
The roadies passed out hours ago;



Mick’s stretched out in Room Ten-Oh-Nine
Where all those stray cats wait in line.


So goodnight Memory Motel.
Goodnight bottle of Rebel Yell;

Brazilian pimp and Swedish whore;
The French cops pounding at the door.


The dealers with the gypsy curse;
That jaded faded junkie nurse;


The midnight ramblers and Angels on Harleys;
That tripped-out chick who swears she’s Charlie’s.


Goodnight Brian, Bill and Ron.
Goodnight Elvis. Goodnight Jann.

It’s time to set the cuckoo clock.
Ah, fuck sleep. Let’s stay up and rock.



Rolling Stone’s Rob Sheffield imagines what a childrens book on Keith Richards would be like.





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