Vegas is the place, Fremont Street not the Strip that whorehouse of fake monuments. No chilling on the Fremont, you better keep your eyes open you never know; sometimes somebody comes flying out of the titty bars on his ass, maybe he’s got a knife. The black hookers in puffy blonde wigs stand around rearranging their boobs and scratching their balls and the cowboys whistle as they cruise by. Oh man you haven’t lived until you slip on the barf and fall on your face next to a silver dollar just when you need gas money to get back. The chemicals are kicking in and everything gets colorful and you just know you’re gonna win.
Here comes the wheelie woman and her dog, just don't let me wake up again in her slimy sheets while the puppy licks the scabs on her stump. Better save the bottle of bourbon in case I need a disinfectant down where the crabs frolic.