Whether you think that Jim Morrison was a Blakean visionary or ‘just’ a fine shouter in a decent rock n’ roll band, there’s no denying that the good people at Harper Collins have pushed the boat – or perhaps that should be the crystal ship – right out here. This is a beautiful artefact that every Doors aficionado will covet, with more of the Lizard King’s musings than any sane person could possibly want, along with pictures of that handsome man and his own handwritten work. It’s also hefty enough to serve as a weaponised deterrent should anyone be inconsiderate enough to break into your domicile, or exclude any draft as winter returns.

As well as the ‘poetry’ – ‘The Celebration Of The Lizard’, ‘An American Prayer’, all the classics, we’re also treated to his Miami trial – after getting his collar felt for getting little Jim out - notes and his Paris journal. “Naked we come & bruised we go, nude pastry for the soft worms below.” Groovy. Like that? Let’s have some more so.

"Now once there was
fair Irish lad
Young Nicolas was his name
He took his name from
former fame
& made his talents flame"

Hmm, right. More? Okay.

"I like the way you do your hair
I love the color of your underwear
I love your milky silky snow
white breast
Your car, your jar of coke
& your Sunday best"

I see. Good man.

It should be obvious enough to even the illiterate that Morrison was a much better lyricist than a poet – structure reigned in his gasbag tendencies – and the wise inclusion of The Doors’ lyrics proves there was more going on than just some drunk who fancied himself and spouted couplets that would have seen him laughed out of any fifth year poetry club. A good portion of the music The Doors made in the few short years they were together before Mr Mojo Risin’ took his last bath has – quite rightly - endured, although I still reckon there should have been a man with a large hook at the side of every stage, ready to yank Ray Manzarek into the wings whenever he launched into yet another extended organ solo.

Still though, there’s no knocking records like that classic debut and their swan song, L.A. Woman, and there’s plenty of good gear in between those too, despite however many Native Americans scattered on dawn's highway bleeding crowded young Jim's fragile eggshell mind. I’m as fond of those deathless albums as you are, I just think Morrison should have stuck to the day job. All that being said, you can confidently purchase this for the Jim acolyte in your life and – that’s right - they’ll love you until the end.