I've been found out. Yes, fair reader, one of my dirtiest secrets has been exposed: I did indeed consort with the four filthy English hippies who called themselves The Beatles.
Why would I confess to a deed so horrid? 'Tis simple. Stuart Gimble is a man of principle. He does not steal audio masters and mutilate them. He does not pen potty-mouthed letters saturated with slanders and sarcasms most heinous. Nay, Gimble strives for the moral firmament floating in the skies above.
Yes, these Beatles were fans of mine in my heyday. John Paul would call me at every odd hour, asking for literary advice. I'd simply tell the lout, "cut your hair and stop associating with that Robert Zimmerman character. He's no poet; he's just a Midwestern simpleton with a penchant for peasant songs." But would John Paul listen? I think you know the answer, so let us draw the curtain on that episode and continue.
They did so love my work, those Beatles, that they'd stalk me in the library, assaulting me, begging for my autograph. John Paul was particularly persistent. After hours of listening to the buffoon's flattery, I buckled and took pen to photograph. The photo, as you can see here, ended up on the cover of the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.
Originally the album was to be titled, These Lads Play for Sgt. Gimble and No One Else, but I threatened to file suit if they used my name to market such sonic swill. Alas, the world was cursed by the album's awful music and lousy last-minute title.
By the way, dear reader, I did secure the fabled March of Gimble master tapes and I'm in the process of personally mixing the song. Prepare for the splendor!