|
There is a city by the sea, a gentle company |
|
I don't suppose you want to |
|
And as it tells its sorry tale in harrowing detail |
|
Its hollowness will haunt you |
|
It streets and boulevards, orphans and oligarchs are here |
|
A plaintive melody, truncated symphony |
|
An ocean's garbled vomit on the shore |
|
Los Angeles, |
|
I'm yoursOld ladies pleasant and demure, sallow cheeked and sure |
|
I can see your undies |
|
And all the boys you drag about an empty fellow found |
|
From Saturdays to |
|
MondaysYou hill and valley crowd, hanging your trousers down at here |
|
This is the realest thing, as ancient choirs sing |
|
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel about |
|
Los Angeles, my love |
|
Oh, what a rush of ripe elan, languor on divans |
|
Dallyiant and dainty |
|
But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine, the dollor and decay |
|
It only makes me cranky |
|
A great calamity, ditch of inequity it's here |
|
How I abhor this place, its sweet and bitter taste |
|
Has left me wretched retching on all fours |
|
Los Angeles, |
|
I'm yoursLos |
|
Angeles, I'm yours |
|
Los Angeles, |
|
I'm yours |
