Down to Vegas

Baby won't you come to Las Vegas with me? You don't need to think too much about or feel a compromise. If you don't do it in life: when will you get mad?
Baby, blue siphon eyes.


Just imagine the gorgeous desert's sun falling on your red hair, on my blond.
I'm dressed all in a white suit, and you all in black, in a rented car, like one of those movies that you watched someday with the dinner.


Baby marry me in Vegas, and let's divorce 20 minutes later; marry me for irony, baby; Irish eyes, or Sovietic.


If you don't get mad in life; when will you?




The sun sun sun and the ultra-violet buildings and my nomad's desolation told me that Vegas was a sweet sweet sweet place to stay exactly 37 days out of the 365 of a year...

baby: won't you never ever get mad?


So won't you get crazy under constant white planes cutting up the sky of Nevada?
Like white razorblades in blue meat, baby.





Sweet and pretty girl; come run down by that glory road so depp...[sic]


The road to Tucson, Borger, Pampa, Amarillo. Long, like a silvery tongue.




Come: after burning the flag we'll apologize in a very European way: we'll masturbate in front of the cops.




Oh, baby; I love America.