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