William S Burroughs loves Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle
Rage, rage.
Old age should burn into that good night;
the dying of the light.

Dying of the light
like meteors with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle there on that sad height
and rave at close of day.

Grave men near death
curse, bless me now into that good night.
And you, my father who see with blinding sight.
Because their word had forked no light
they wave by, crying how bright sang the sun in flight.

Blind eyes could blaze through wise men.
Rage. rage.
Wild men, who caught too late their end,
know dark is right
grieved on its way into that good night.
Good men, they learn at last their frail deeds might have.
Rage, rage into that good night.

Dance.

Do not go gentle.
Do not go gentle on your way
to the dying of the light.