A chalupa in my right hand, a Corona in the left one, and streaks Of Jose Cuervo Gold soaked my esophagus and The shag seat of my vintage VW 'bug'. I sped down the road at 120 mph, my knee Barely held the steering wheel in place As it shook uncontrollably, while I chomped On my beef chalupa and chased it down with Lime-less Corona. I saw the border crossing of San Ysidro In the distance. The chalupa is finished. The fiesta colored Wrapping can now be used to by migrants To wipe their asses by the yellow illegal immigrant Signs along the highway. A golden shower Of piss in a bottle Splashed against the plastic window of the Mexican immigration official As the Beetle crashed through the flimsy Gates of San Ysidro. I lost control and Ran over four foot women who begged for pesos and dreamed about dollars. The hood was dented by the peddler, wearing the sombrero, Who held the wooden model ship that Flew through the Windshield And into my head. We are back.