Drive me to the edge in your Mambo Cadillac,
      turn left at the graveyard and gas that baby, the black
night ringing with its holy roller scream. I’ll clock
      you on the highway at three a.m., brother, amen, smack
the road as hard as we can, because I’m gonna crack
      the world in two, make a hoodoo soup with chicken necks,
a gumbo with plutonium roux, a little snack
      before the dirt-and-jalapeño stew that will shuck
the skin right off your slinky hips, Mr. I’m-not-stuck
      in-a-middle-class-prison-with-someone-I-hate sack
of blues. Put on your high-wire shoes, Mr. Right, and stick
      with me. I’m going nowhere fast, the burlesque
queen of this dim scene, I want to feel the wind, the Glock
      in my mouth, going south, down-by-the-riverside shock
of the view. Take me to Shingles Fried Chicken Shack
      in your Mambo Cadillac. I was gone, but I’m back
for good this time. I’ve taken a shine to daylight. Crank
      up that radio, baby, put on some dance music
and shake your moneymaker, doll, rev it up to Mach
2, I’m talking to you, Mr. Magoo. Sit up, check
out that blonde with the leopard print tattoo. O she’ll lick
      the sugar right off your doughnut and bill you, too, speak
French while she do the do. Parlez-vous français? So, pick
      me up tonight at ten in your Mambo Cadillac
Chile, Argentina, Peru. Take some time off work;
we’re gonna be a lot longer than a week
or two. Is this D-day or Waterloo? White or black—
it’s up to you. We’ll be in Mexico tonight. Pack
a razor, pack some glue. Things fall apart off the track,
and that’s where we’ll be, baby, in our Mambo Cadillac,
      cause you’re looking for love, but I’m looking for a wreck.