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It's for the dust wind, scratches on the eyes and poison in the lungs.
It's for the solitary palm, distant vision, from the top of the dunes.
It's for the hallucinated mirages, shimmering water pools and talking cacti.
It's for the persistent sweat, salty streams down hollowed cheeks.
It's for the raiders on dromedaries, sharp knives, and glasses even at night.
It's for the lonely scorpions, shadow under the stones, killers in the tail.
It's for the abandoned gas stations, diesel, warm beer, and ghosts.
It's for the strippers of the Titty Twister, boots, lasso, pole, and saliva.
It's for the one-eyed whore at the border, thirty dollars, and a revolver under the pillow.
It's for the wide-awake gringo, returning soulless on his steed.
It's for the nomads with dry skin, laden camels and daughters for sale.
It's for the wreckage of your Buick, dead metal, between sand and asphalt.
It's Psychedelic Garage rock. Stoned fat riffs and a lot of drugs.
A sandstorm to fill you with dust even in your underwear.
(Thanks to the Zeppelin, the Sabbath, and the Hawkwind for the drugs and inspiration. The Fu Manchu, Monster Magnet, and the Kyuss, for the whores and the desert)
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