If journalism is to literature
What prostitution is to making love,
Then you were God's Own Whore!
I'll never fail to think of you
When I'm hauling ass
East out of Barstow
And the desert'd heat is crusting over
The half remembered stains of
Last nights excess
Ot in mid-October of an election year,
When I'm busting my ass and
Sleeping under my desk, fighting the good fight
With burgers and beer and cheap truckers' speed
Flying a fool's flag from the Gonzo parrapet
Ready to Fight
Ready to Die
Ready to Fuck
Ready to Cry
All to stop the Bastards..the evil spawn of drug-free America

I feel you coursing through my viens
Like a bump of ten dollar smack
Rolling around like an empty bottle of Pueto Rician rum on the floorboard
Mixing with the Fear and Loathing of what's to come

FUCK YOU, Dr. Thompson
Fuck you and all the dope
All the guns
The midnight faxes
The rumors
The unconfirmed
And the flat-ass lies
Go quietly, Hell...!

As they blast you high into the sky,
Higher than any plant or chemical or book tour ever could.
Celestial junkies, and faggot cowboys
And copy-editors for columns not yet written:
Receive this man,
This Light in the desert
This Mountain Miasma

Let him tear ass through heaven in a big red convertable
With a pack of horny angels in the backseat
Up gold streets and around the corner of paradise...
Just so he can see what it's like up there
In the real world...