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
|
Its streets and boulevards
|
Orphans and oligarchs it hears
|
A plaintive melody
|
Truncated symphony
|
An ocean's garbled vomit on the shore,
|
Los Angeles, I'm yours
|
|
Oh 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 Mondays
|
You hill and valley crowd
|
Hanging your trousers down at heel
|
This is the realest thing
|
As ancient choirs sing
|
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above
|
Los Angeles I love
|
|
Oh what a rush of wry belan (?)
|
Languor on divans
|
Dalliant and dainty
|
But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine
|
The dolor and decay
|
It only makes me cranky
|
Oh great calamity,
|
Ditch of iniquity and tears
|
How I abhor this place
|
Its sweet and bitter taste
|
Has left me wretched, retching on all fours
|
Los Angeles, I'm yours
|
|
-----------------
|
Los Angeles, I'm Yours
|
The Decemberists |